


Mouthful of Cavities

by Saccharine_Ghosts



Series: Eleutherophobia [1]
Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Anxiety Disorder, Canon Compliant, Fluff, Hospitalization, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Internalized Homophobia, Love Letters, M/M, Mental Instability, Mental Institutions, Minor Character Death, Panic Attacks, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prologue, Self-Harm, Sexual Humor, Slow Burn, Suicide, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-03
Updated: 2017-10-03
Packaged: 2019-01-08 13:19:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 28,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12255174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saccharine_Ghosts/pseuds/Saccharine_Ghosts
Summary: The cluck struck 12:00 in the afternoon, and Waylon is crying. He doesn’t know exactly when it started or when it plans on stopping, but it doesn’t look like it will anytime soon. Mid-sentence the tears had formed, slipping down his cheeks without him noticing until vision began to blur around the edges and his therapist set a box of tissues on the table in front of him.“It’s alright to cry, Waylon,” she said as she sat back down, “It’s actually a good sign, it shows me that you’re finally processing emotions correctly. I think this is something worth crying over.”Doctor Darnielle was a very nice woman. Small, unassuming, but tough. He had three therapists, and of them she was already turning out to be his favourite. Ever since he had been taken into custody everybody had either been too rough with him, or coddled him like a child. It was quite infuriating, to say the least. Now Waylon understands how those at Mount Massive felt, even more so than before.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in two days running off energy drinks, coffee, and vegan donuts. It's the result of years of writing absolutely no angst despite feeling the urge to, whilst simultaneously not wanting to see my favourite characters in pain. Honestly, this game has been out for years, I'm surprised it didn't happen sooner. 
> 
> Please keep in mind that this fic has some potentially triggering material. I'm sure if you've played Outlast then you will be fine, but still be cautious. It's not too graphic, but it does deal with some things that may be a bit unexpected in the normal canon. 
> 
> As well, I haven't ever been admitted to a psychiatric hospital. This is a bit exaggerated, but I'm also using my experiences of visiting my friends in them, and also their first-hand experiences, so shout out to them for making this a bit more realistic! 
> 
> Please enjoy,  
> Ted.
> 
>  
> 
> ****  
> ~~(Also, let's all just forget that Waylon has two sons for a quick minute, alright? Alright.)~~  
> 

The cluck struck 12:00 in the afternoon, and Waylon is crying. He doesn’t know exactly when it started or when it plans on stopping, but it doesn’t look like it will anytime soon. Mid-sentence the tears had formed, slipping down his cheeks without him noticing until vision began to blur around the edges and his therapist set a box of tissues on the table in front of him.

“It’s alright to cry, Waylon,” she said as she sat back down, “It’s actually a good sign, it shows me that you’re finally processing emotions correctly. I think this is something worth crying over.” 

Doctor Darnielle was a very nice woman. Small, unassuming, but tough. He had three therapists, and of them she was already turning out to be his favourite. Ever since he had been taken into custody everybody had either been too rough with him, or coddled him like a child. It was quite infuriating, to say the least. Now Waylon understands how those at Mount Massive felt, even more so than before. His therapist was the first person to ever treat him as if he was a normal person in a tough spot, not some deranged mental patient who was dangerous and on the brink of lashing out. At least he could talk, and at least he felt safe, but he can’t say that about the poor patients on the mountain. 

“I know,” he said as he wiped at his eyes, “I just think it’s finally hitting me, you know? Talking about it now, with you, i-it’s the first time I’ve actually thought about how I’m feeling, and not just what’s happened to me.” 

She gave him a small sympathetic smile, “Back to what we were discussing,” she picked her notebook off the coffee table once again and readied her pencil, “You said you haven’t been able to see your wife since you were admitted?” 

This was true, yes. They had daily designated visiting hours but apparently since they were still appraising Waylon’s condition they didn’t know whether it would be detrimental or not for him to see his family. He confirmed, even though she knew this already. 

“Is that a goal of yours, Waylon? To be well enough to see Lisa, your parents, your siblings?” she rested her head on her knuckles; elbow leant on the armrest of the chair. 

“Y-Yeah, of course,” he had his arms crossed and tightened them a little more before dabbing at a damp cheek with a used tissue, “I’d give anything to see them again.” 

Darnielle chewed her lip a bit but her face went otherwise expressionless. Waylon could practically see the cogs and gears turning in her head, processing the information she had been given and what she was seeing before her. It made him feel exposed; he hated being psychoanalysed by all these different people. 

“You know, I can’t help but feel like maybe you’re holding something back. Like you’re not telling me the whole story.” 

His grip on himself tightened, “You know the whole story, Doctor Darnielle, what else is there to tell? I was wrongfully committed for spreading Murkoff secrets, I escaped during a riot, and the things I saw during said riot fucked me up to no avail, now I’m rightfully committed. What else is there that you want to know?” 

Again, the good doctor stayed quiet, thinking about her answer before she spoke. It was a welcome change to Doctor Jefferies, who was blunt and arrogant, or Doctor Brown that spoke in hushed tones and softened euphemisms that only made him feel infantilized (as most patients would tell you they felt as well), but the silence ate at him now. She could read him like a book. She knew he was holding back. 

“I want to know why you are so hesitant to see your family.”

The crying stopped. He wiped at the last few remaining tearstains, and stared down at the floor. 

“I just don’t want them to see me like this. I don’t want Lisa…” when he brought his eyes back up to the doctors’, her expression was completely unreadable, “I don’t want Lisa to see me so weak.” 

Doctor Darnielle wrote a few notes down, “That is the only reason?” 

His jaw clenched and unclenched before he spat out a “Yes.” 

The doctor sighed and nodded, closing her book and putting it back on the coffee table beside her. “I guess if you don’t want to tell me, I can’t make you. This will be the end of our session, I’ll talk with you tomorrow?” 

Waylon gave a hurried goodbye, slipped his glasses back on, and left the office before she could press further. Apparently he was only supposed to have one doctor, Doctor Brown, but he had requested that the man go to a different psychologist to “further his progress”. The trauma had been much worse than they first expected when he arrived, and Doctor Brown did not seem very confident in his ability to help Waylon, which wasn’t reassuring at all, but Doctor Jefferies had been too jarring a therapist, and they made even less progress together. 

Much to his chagrin, he came to realize that quantity did not always mean quality, and three doctors did not necessarily mean better or faster results. Doctor Brown never got anywhere, as he was too passive and soft on Waylon, and Doctor Jefferies made Waylon panic and clam up, so he just told them what they wanted to hear. This seemed terrible until he was introduced to Doctor Darnielle, who showed actual promise, and then he realized actual promise meant he would need to confront his feelings for once, and he was suddenly caught between comfort and progress. Which was better? He was yet to decide. 

Most days he spent in his room. When they eventually gave him the go ahead to interact with other patients at the facility, he didn’t really take advantage of it. Some of the nurses and orderlies brought him books and things to do when he asked, one day one of them brought a Rubik’s Cube, which he solved in a matter of minutes and set down on his desk to stare at for a few hours. The only time he left was at meals, where he waited for everybody to be seated and eating before he got in line to get his food. 

One time Doctor Brown suggested he eat lunch in the cafeteria for once. For a few days he worked up to it, telling himself that a little more interaction than usual wouldn’t be so bad, then at least he could log that he had made a little more progress. It went well, and nobody questioned him when he limped his way into the cafeteria and slipped into line with a nurse, who in turn would receive the food for him so he wasn’t being handed anything. 

Until a very skinny man who an orderly referred to as Derrick refused to eat his meal, and an argument with one of the nurses quickly turned into Derrick on the ground with one of the ward officer’s knee in his back and multiple others rushing to control the suddenly hysteric man.

Needless to say, Waylon no longer attends mealtime in the cafeteria. 

It felt like walking in circles. Day after day he would be brought breakfast, given his meds, take a shower then read a bit of his book, take a walk (or limp rather) around the property, eat lunch, see one of his doctors, eat dinner, read some more while they searched his room, then go to bed. Rinse, soap, and repeat. The same drone day in, and day out, with little to no progress with his doctors. 

He did feel guilty. Doctor Darnielle knew exactly what she was doing, and if he could only tell her what was on his mind, maybe she could be the one thing that got him out of here, but at this point he didn’t even know if he _wanted_ to be let out. There was a comfort in the order, in the routine that he knew he would go through every day. In the beginning, every touch sent him into a blind, violent panic, and the thought of eating, drinking, and sleeping made him sick to his stomach. Nobody touched him anymore, unless he needed to be restrained at night during his more violent nightmares, but normally he just cried quietly. That’s what he did at Mount Massive, and that was all he dreamed of, even now he couldn’t afford to be heard. 

Apparently she really was doing a good job, because as he read his book that night, a rather boring young adult fiction novel about a dystopian universe, he couldn’t concentrate. Time after time again his mind went back to that one probing statement:

_“I want to know why you are so hesitant to see your family.”_

Despite not being able to answer at the time, it was really quite simple. 

Miles Upshur was the reason he was so scared to face his family again. 

The book slipped from his fingers as he brought his knees up to his face and hugged them tight. Not once during his weeks here had he thought of Miles directly, but really he was always there, a dark spot on the back of his mind at all times. The name Miles had never passed his lips once, not to his doctors, not to himself, not since the asylum when he had thought of the man at every single turn he took. 

The clock struck 9:13 in the evening, and Waylon was crying again.

Despite knowing the orderlies would only intervene if his crying became too hysteric, he tried to muffle his sobs into his knees further, hoping if he hid himself then his thoughts would also decide to hide away as well. They never did. He kept thinking of Miles. 

He thought of the day they met at the University of Texas. Waylon was supposed to set up a classroom’s equipment, as it had been completed partway through the year and had only recently been equipped with power. Miles had been in the office when he arrived at the visitor’s center and offered to show him the classroom. It was apparently the new location for the man’s journalism class, and he seemed overly enthusiastic to view the new room. 

They hit it off immediately. Waylon had never “hit it off” with anybody, not even Lisa who he had been best friends with since the sixth grade. There was just something about Miles, his confidence, his quick wit, most likely his charm that had everybody in the room drawn to him. He was funny and joked with Waylon a lot on his way to the classroom, but never at Waylon’s expense. It felt good, and he was extremely comfortable as he fell into step with the smooth-talking man. 

After that, Miles sort of became part of his life. They exchanged numbers after Miles told him he liked him and would need his number if he encountered any technical problems in the future. He would come to find that if you knew Miles personally, he was a sweet talker, always cracking jokes and complimenting you, but if you were on the other side of things? Well, you better be prepared. 

He was fired from his first journalism job, a small internship at a local newspaper right as he left college. It didn’t pay well, but Miles had been so proud that he phoned Waylon that day and insisted that he drop everything and take Miles out for drinks. Waylon refused, since Miles could not yet drink, but instead offered that he come over to his house so Waylon could make him dinner. Miles loved Lisa, as she loved him, so he immediately accepted. 

Just months later, Waylon received a call that they had let him go. Miles would go to great lengths for a story, saying it was for “Truth and justice!” which was both a blessing and a curse. He was passionate, and fiery, and sometimes that quick wit got him into more trouble than he could weasel himself out of. This was a reoccurring experience, Miles losing jobs as fast as he managed to catch them, and Waylon coming over with beer and bad movies to cheer him up. Though, the very last time was one neither could forget.

“God, Way,” he said, rubbing at the dark circles under his eyes and letting his head fall to the back of the couch, “I don’t know if I can keep doing this. Maybe I should try freelance for a while.” 

“You just started this job!” Waylon plopped down on the cushion beside him, “What happened exactly?” 

Miles chewed his cheek and shut his eyes, “Well, you know how there were rumours about that guy that owned the auto shop down on 3rd?” 

“Uh yeah, Chase Newman or Truman or whatever, right? He turned away service for a gay couple.” 

The brunet made a finger gun but didn’t look up, “Chase Truman, that’s the one. Turns out he’s not exactly turning away all the gays, just the ones who are in a committed relationship.” 

The room went silent for a moment before the ends met and the blond made the connection. 

“Shut up, you didn’t!” the brunet just grinned in response, “Miles, this is serious! What did you do?”

“What did I do?” the man scoffed, “More like what did _Chase_ do. I just…” he made a general gesture with his hands, “Wore the right pair of jeans, I guess.” 

Waylon rubbed his temples and shut his eyes, trying not to lose his temper on the younger man. He knew the lengths he would go to get the full story; he just wasn’t prepared for it to come to this. 

“You fucking lunatic, how could you be so reckless?” 

“Hey, you sound like my boss.” 

“Miles!” the blond snapped, “You didn’t sleep with him, did you?” 

The brunet scoffed again and brought his hands up to his chest in a hurt gesture, “I do have standards, you know. I just can’t help that I have a perfectly symmetrical face and an ass that won’t quit,” he smirked despite Waylon’s disapproving look, “He felt me up, tried to get me to come into the back of the shop, I got it all on tape.” 

He held up a small black audio recorder attached to a clip-on microphone from the end table beside him, earning him a loud groan from Waylon. 

“Oh come on, Way,” Miles scooted closer and put an arm across the back of the couch, “It may have been too far for this newspaper, but to another it would be… ambitious, you know?” 

Waylon took a deep breath before continuing his reprimand, “Or it will get you killed one day, or worse.” 

The corner of the brunet’s mouth turned up a bit, “You worried about me?” 

“Of course, dumbass!” Waylon shoved him a bit, “You’re my best friend,” his voice got a bit quieter, “I don’t want you doing stupid shit like this just for a story.” 

The smile on Miles’ face never fell, only grew as Waylon’s words soaked into him. He would later admit to Waylon that he never had a best friend, but in the moment all he could do was bury his fingers in Waylon’s hair and pull their lips together. 

It was completely unexpected, to Waylon and Miles both. The blond immediately shot back, causing the air between them to grow thick and heavy with awkwardness. Waylon’s hand immediately shot up to his lips, and he just sat there, staring at the younger man through his thick-rimmed glasses.

“Waylon,” started Miles, “I am so, so sorry, oh my-“ 

Then their lips were touching again, Waylon’s glasses pressing into his cheeks, but Miles just melted against the smaller man because he had been itching for this for _so_ long, but he had always held back out of respect for Waylon, and Lisa as well. Since Waylon had initiated it this second time, he didn’t let his guilty thoughts get to him until later that night, after he and Waylon had both come whilst rutting against each other, and the blond began crying. 

There was nothing Miles could do in that moment to console him. Neither of them knew what the fuck was happening, so the younger man just wrapped his arms around Waylon and pulled him up against his chest, letting him sob into it. When he finally calmed down enough to get out a coherent sentence, he spilled his whole heart to Miles, every last thing that he had been keeping to everybody, including himself, for all twenty-eight years of his life. 

“I-I’m gay,” he sputtered, “I’ve known – I’ve known for a long t-time I just didn’t-“ his whole body tensed again as he fought back a fresh wave of sobs. 

“But you like girls, Waylon, it’s okay to want to explore now that you’re older, maybe you can talk to-“ 

Before the brunet could utter his wife’s name, the blond gripped his shoulders tightly and looked straight into his eyes. 

“Don’t you get it, Miles-“ his face softened and his voice got quieter, “I’m gay, I don’t like women!” 

Miles suddenly looked like he was about to cry as well, “B-But Li-“ 

The look on Waylon’s face stopped him dead in his tracks, and suddenly both of them were crying together, clutching at each other and kissing through the tears like it was their last night on earth. Not only had they hit it off immediately, but Miles had made Waylon admit something to himself that he never even considered before. His whole life he had fought these feelings, out of fear for what his family, what society would think, so he married his childhood best friend and he kept them locked away in a safe at the back of his mind, and he threw away the key. 

That morning when they woke up they were still holding each other. They talked a into the afternoon, knowing they had time since Waylon told Lisa they had been drinking a bit and he would just come home the next day, and came to the conclusion that Miles would help Waylon sort this out, and once the man was comfortable in himself and ready, he would tell Lisa. 

Waylon was now thirty-two years old, and he still had not told Lisa anything. 

Maybe that’s why he was so hesitant to see his family, or tell his doctors about this, because that would mean admitting to himself and others that he had problems that went further than Mount Massive. He also knew that keeping a low and consistent profile was essential in the Murkoff case. A family man with two young boys and a gorgeous wife were worth the story; it was a case that had written itself time and time again. A man who suddenly after incarceration admits to cheating on his wife with a man? That sure makes a story, but not exactly one that helps his wrongful incarceration plea in any way. 

But now that he is letting himself think of Miles, all of the memories are flooding back. All the times he told the man he was working up to telling Lisa, every time he told him to leave because he doesn’t deserve to wait on him, only to have Miles reassure him that he would wait all the time in the world if it meant Waylon did it when he knew he could handle it. Every time he would be cornered by a variant in the asylum and his thoughts would immediately turn to Miles, and how much he regretted not telling Lisa about them, about all the times he didn’t tell the man he loved him, all the time they didn’t get to spend together because Waylon was a _coward._ Waylon also thought about the email he sent from the untraceable address, and how while he was escaping he ran to a cherry red Jeep Wrangler that smelt like cigarettes and Miles’ cologne he realized what he had done, but before he could act on it the car was moving on its own accord and all he could do was watch a horrifyingly familiar figure fade in the rear view mirror. 

He couldn’t keep doing this to himself. Waylon had been a coward for far too long, and he couldn’t keep hiding himself away from things that were difficult. At this point he didn’t even care about Murkoff, he just wanted them gone, to be able to forget about them, and to be with Miles. In order to do that, he needed to see if Miles was even still alive, or if he had hallucinated that whole ordeal with the Jeep. 

So the next day he took his pills and ate his breakfast, and when his nurse asked him why the dark circles under his eyes were so much worse, he blamed it on the book, despite it being so mind-numbingly boring and overdone. Afterwards, he got dressed into his normal clothes, skipped the reading, and went for an extra long walk that went well into lunchtime, to think about what he would say to Doctor Darnielle. They hadn’t been monitoring his meals for the past few weeks, so his skipping lunch would most likely stay under the radar, or he would just get off with a small warning and extra supervision the next few days. 

By the time he had limped into the therapist’s office, his leg was aching terribly, and sitting down was a relief. He was told it would go away in a month or so, but it was quite hindering despite his rather stagnant state. Resting relaxed him a bit, but he still felt anxious about the conversation he was about to have. Regardless, Doctor Darnielle poured him a cup of tea, and one for herself, before she sat down across from him with her little notebook in hand. 

“So Waylon, how are you feeling today? You seem a bit tired.” 

He nodded as he took a sip of the lukewarm drink, the steam fogging his glasses a bit, “Yeah, I am, I just had a lot on my mind after yesterday’s session.” He licked his lips nervously as he went over the rehearsed lines again, but she didn’t rush him. “Would you be able to tell me if... if I wanted to know if somebody made it out of Mount Massive?” 

She looked a bit shocked as he mentioned the asylum so casually but answered calmly, “I can only give you so much information on patients-“ 

“Not a patient,” he fiddled with the handle of the mug a bit, “His name is Miles Upshur, he’s a freelance journalist.” 

The doctor stood and grabbed a file from her desk, sorting through a few papers, “The man who owned the car you took as you left?” 

His chest tightened suddenly, a wave of emotion washing over him that he couldn’t quite place. 

“Yes,” he forced out, “That one.” 

Doctor Darnielle read over the file a few times, but it was obvious to Waylon that this meant she knew something, but was hesitant to tell him. She didn’t know what Miles meant to him, if it was a good or bad thing, so she weighed the affects of the information. 

“It says here that his car appeared on the camera feed of the parking booth around eight-forty-three with Mr. Upshur inside, and that you were seen leaving in it around seven-o-seven the next morning,” she flipped the page, “No body was found inside Mount Massive, his neighbours have not seen him since, and the police issued a missing person’s report around the same time you were admitted here.” She looked up and examined his face, “Did you know him?” 

Waylon’s mouth opened once, and then closed, wondering what response would be best. He supposed if they were going to be making any real progress here, he should start telling the truth. 

“Yeah, we were… close.” 

“If that’s the case, I’m very sorry, Waylon,” she looked a bit intrigued as she closed the file, “Not knowing is almost worse than finding a body, I’m sure this is tough. Why did you decide to bring him up today?” 

The blond drained the rest of his tea but held onto the cup, feeling like he needed something to hold to keep his hands busy. 

“The reason-“ his throat suddenly tightened and he took a deep, steadying breath before continuing. “The reason Murkoff had me committed was because I had sent an email out asking a journalist to investigate the asylum and the illegal activities that were taking place there,” he met her eyes, “I was the reason he came to the asylum.” 

“Do you feel guilty for it?” she immediately shot back. 

“Yes, very,” he felt the familiar sting of tears behind his eyes, “H-He might be de-“ he buried his face in his hands, “He’s probably dead because of me.” 

The dark-haired doctor did not move to comfort him, which he appreciated. He wanted to be angry with himself right now, he had just felt sorry for so long and he was sick of it. 

“What do you think suddenly brought these feelings up? You haven’t mentioned him at all to Doctor Brown or Jefferies,” she poured herself another cup as she waited for him to work up an answer. 

“Yesterday, when you – when you asked why I was so h-hesitant about seeing my family-“ he wiped at his cheeks with the sleeves of his sweater and stared anywhere but the doctor, “We were together-” 

She was completely silent. 

“Miles and I.” 

Still she didn’t interrupt. 

“Lisa has no idea. I-I don’t know why he was the first person to come to mind when I sent the email, I just knew he would come looking for - for a story, even if there was just a slight chance that it was me who sent the email,” he clutched at his head as he brought his feet up onto the chair, “He was all I could think about in the asylum. I just kept thinking of him, and how much I regretted not telling Lisa, and how many times I could’ve told him I loved him but I didn’t-“ the tears began falling silently again behind his lenses, “Now he’s probably dead. I think I wanted the Jeep to not be his, but at the same time I did, so all this time I told myself that I hallucinated the whole thing, that it was a Jeep but maybe it wasn’t really Miles’, but now I know it was and I just…” he sucked in a shaky breath, “He was in there with me the whole time. He saw what I saw. Even if he’s not dead, who knows what kind of state he’s in…” 

The doctor’s hand rested atop her notebook but she didn’t open it, “Are you hopeful at all?”

“I don’t want to be,” he shook his head, “But Miles is the toughest guy I know. If I made it out, he should have before me, and if he did he would be handling it much better than I am.” He hugged his knees a little tighter, “It’s stupid to get my hopes up.” 

“Thank you for telling me this, Waylon,” said Darnielle as she began writing notes, “I think now that I know what’s wrong we can start working towards a solution. I do agree that it’s best not to set your hopes too high, but a little hope can do wonders, especially in situations like these.” The woman pulled a notebook out from her desk and placed it on the table between her and Waylon with a felt marker, weary of his distrust for being handed things, “I want you to tell me your goals for our sessions together, and write them down.” 

Slowly, he took the marker and notebook from the table and opened it up. Goals were not really something he had considered lately, since his biggest obstacle to overcome was just making it through the day without breaking down most of the time, but he knew what she was getting at. If he had specific, realistic goals to work towards, then their time here would be much more organized and focused, and then he would have something to look forward to, maybe even make him a bit more pliable. 

“Okay, I guess-“ he brought the marker down and began writing, “The big one would be working up to telling Lisa about… about Miles and I, and I guess another is being able to go to group therapy.”

Her face lit up, “That’s a good one, I’m glad that’s something you would consider. Anything else?” 

“Well… leave would be a good one too,” he finished writing and closed the book, “As much as I love eating creamed corn and tomato soup for dinner every day.” 

“One last thing,” Darnielle smiled and motioned to the book, “I want you to start writing about your days.” 

Waylon raised an eyebrow, “Like a diary?” 

“It doesn’t have to be. You could write it like a diary, or letters to yourself or somebody you love. You could write it like a report, whatever is easiest for you,” she pulled out a few more markers and set them down on the low oak table between them, “I won’t read them unless you want me to, but it’ll be good for you to keep track of how you’re feeling and things that happen that affect you that you normally wouldn’t bring up in our sessions.” 

He nodded along with the information, “I guess that makes sense.” 

“Great, I’ll let your nurses know I allowed you to have the notebook and markers for when they do their room searches,” she gave him a small, reassuring smile before relaxing back into her chair, “So, tell me a little about your relationship with Miles Upshur.” 

With minimal crying, Waylon told the woman about him and Miles. He explained that his family was extremely conservative and would not take well to having a son who was anything but straight, so he married his friend at a very young age and tried to repress these feelings. He also told her that Miles brought these feelings to the forefront, and that her and Miles were the only people to ever know that Waylon was gay. She let him talk, spill his guts, retell a few memories he had of Miles to her, including their meeting and the night he first confessed to the man. Not once did she interrupt or make comments about how he was cheating on his wife of ten years and her expression did not change. She wasn’t judging. She never once judged him based on his personal decisions. 

That night, after his dinner was eaten and his room had been checked, he changed into shorts and a loose tee and sat on his bed to start writing in the journal he had been given that day. Doctor Darnielle told him to start whenever he wished, but sooner was better than later, and it gave him another thing to do, which was always a plus. 

The only problem was that he had no idea how to start it. He wasn’t good with words, not like Miles or Lisa always were, and he had never had a diary before. He saw no point in it. If he kept the thoughts deep down, they never needed to surface in the first place. 

Then his brain bounced back to what Doctor Darnielle had said earlier: _“- a little hope can do wonders in situations like these…”_

So he started writing, and eventually the words starting filling the page faster than he was even thinking them. 

_”Dear Miles,”_

_”I don’t know if you even made it out of the asylum. Honestly, I’m still in shock that you were even there in the first place. I wasn’t thinking when I sent you that email. It was so fucking stupid of me, and I’m sorry, not that it means anything now.”_

_”I’m in a psychiatric hospital right now. They said I’m a risk to myself, the ‘and a risk to others’ bit is yet to be decided. My therapist said I should start writing about my days like this, putting my thoughts down so I can think about it more rather than just pushing it down. She said you’re a missing person, so I know I won’t be sending these anywhere anytime soon, but I like to think that one day you will. That’s all that gets me through the day right now, is just thinking about better times. Things aren’t so bad here, there are no priests trying to get me to join their gospel or tortured patients throwing guards off of roofs, so I can’t complain.”_

_”But you know me, I’m all about complaining. I miss wearing contact lenses, and the food is shit. Not quite as bad as your cooking, but not far behind. I’d give anything for a Big Mac right about now, which makes me sound like you, but it’s the absolute truth. I’m hungry, and boxed scalloped potatoes taste like mayo and sawdust. It’s lonely too, I haven’t been allowed to see anybody since I got here. I miss them, the last time I saw any of my family was when my mom dropped off my clothes at the hospital, but I also really don’t want them to see me like this. I know I always said I wanted to lose a few pounds, but not this way.”_

_”I miss you too. I miss you the most. The thought of not being able to see you again is the hardest thing to deal with right now. When I was in the asylum, I just kept thinking about you and how terribly I’ve treated you up until now, and what your parents must be thinking right now. I should have told Lisa about us the same day I told you. Could you imagine how different things would be? I probably wouldn’t be in this whole mess. Then again, maybe I would, maybe this is payback for all the awful things I’ve done to everybody I loved.”_

_”Yesterday I thought about what would happen when I got out of here. My first thoughts were coming home to you, telling you how sorry I was, and then I realized that I couldn’t. If I come out of here suddenly gay, how does that look on my case? Not good at all. Then my doctor tells me that I didn’t hallucinate it, that I really was in your Jeep, and everything kind of fell into place. I realized that I didn’t really care if Murkoff got what they deserved, I just wanted my life back. Or rather, I wanted a life with you. It didn’t matter what the tabloids said or what came of the Murkoff case, I just wanted what I had been putting off for so long. It’s funny how life works that way; we really don’t appreciate the things we have until they’re gone.”_

_”Even though I’m addressing this to you, I know you’re dead. I’m not getting my hopes up. I’m fully aware that this will never reach you, and that even if I get out of here and I tell Lisa all about us, I’ll never get to love you like I wanted to, or wake up next to you ever again. I just have to live with that from now on. I guess I deserve it. You don’t. You don’t deserve any of this. The people that love you don’t deserve this. I’m sorry, I love you, I can’t say these things enough.”_

_”If I do ever get out of here, I swear I’ll find you. Whether it’s your body, or a death certificate, I’ll find you. When I do, I’ll make Murkoff pay for what they did to us. It’s the least I can do, and it’s what’s right. With you gone, I have nothing else to live for, so I might as well put it to a good cause. Even though it’s tempting, I don’t think I would kill myself. You wouldn’t want me to.”_

_”I guess that’s all for today. I’m not going to say anything like ‘So tell me about your day!’ or some shit like that, because this isn’t me pretending you’re still alive. I’m going to say I miss you, because I do, and I love you more than words could ever say, because that’s the truth, and that I’m going to get out of here and tell Lisa, because that is what you deserve. It’s what you deserved when you were still around, it’s what I need to do now. So thank you Miles, for treating me better than you should have.”_

_”Love, Waylon.”_

When he finished he read it over once, wrote a date at the top, and wiped the dampness from his face that had suddenly appeared during the second paragraph. Afterwards, he closed the journal and put the cap on the marker before setting it down on the table, pleased to have accomplished something for the day that wasn’t a basic human function in order to survive. 


	2. Chapter 2

He slept better, and when he woke up in the morning his nurse did not say anything about him looking tired, which was a good sign. He ate his breakfast, and went on his walks, and even picked out a new book from the library before he made his way to lunch. He thought about staying in the cafeteria, but decided against it; yesterday was a big day for him, he could think about that next week. Or the week after. Maybe that’s a next month kind of thing. 

Then it was finally time for his appointment with Doctor Darnielle. Sometimes their appointments were just a few minutes long, sometimes hours, and he was hopeful that their progress yesterday would lead into more progress today. 

“Hey Waylon,” she greeted, “How’re you feeling today?” 

“I’m alright, and yourself?” 

“Quite alright, thank you,” she gave him a warm smile, “So, did you make any progress with your journal?” 

“Actually, yeah I did,” he relaxed into his seat a bit more, “I wrote it like… I was talking to Miles. I know he’s dead, but I still just feel like that’s what I need to do. Do you think I shouldn’t?” 

“I think that if that’s what you need to do, and you know that these letters to him will most likely never reach him, than that is perfectly fine.”

That relieved Waylon. Writing his thoughts down to Miles had felt good, he wouldn’t want to suddenly change things or find out that this would be detrimental to his progress. 

“Is there anything that you would like to talk about today, Waylon?” 

He shook his head, nothing in particular came to mind. 

“Then I thought maybe we could touch base on something a little more. Do you mind if I ask about your sexuality?” 

The blond’s shoulders immediately tensed but he shook his head again. 

“When you spoke to Miles about these things, did you put a label on what you were to each other?” 

“He’s… he was my boyfriend.” 

She nodded, “Okay, and did he ever help give a name to your identity?” 

Waylon forced the sickness he felt down, a tight knot growing in his abdomen that grew and grew with the anxiety he felt, but he managed to continue.

“I know I’m gay. We said it out loud a few times, but it’s still tough to admit.” 

Again, just like routine, she wrote the scrutinizing notes in her little brown book. 

“So am I safe to assume you are not sexually attracted to Mrs. Park?” 

“… No, I’m not.” 

“And you’ve been together for ten years, so I am also safe to assume that you have had intercourse?” 

Obviously unsettled, he shifted again and pushed his glasses up his nose. 

“I know some traumatic things happened in the asylum, and that you have not talked like this to anybody but your boyfriend, we can stop at any time if it’s too much.” 

“No, it’s fine,” he breathed deeply and stared at the ceiling, “Yeah, we had sex.” 

“Regularly?” 

“I’d say,” again he pushed his glasses back up, “Probably once a week, maybe less.” 

The doctor chewed her bottom lip, “Was it difficult for you? Did you think about other men?” 

That really struck something in Waylon and he felt his eyes suddenly become wet, “No, I don’t… I don’t think I thought of other men, it was just kind of… reflexive, in a way. I just thought about sex in general, and it happened. She did wonder why I wasn’t all over her like guys normally are though.” 

“Were you very affectionate?” 

“Lisa isn’t very clingy.” 

“That was not what I asked.” 

Waylon finally looked at her, “I was. I do love her, just not in the conventional sense. It was easy because I felt safe with her, and comfortable. I enjoyed it.”

“You and Miles also had sex, yes?” 

Again, Waylon nodded, but his guilt was making his organs churn inside him.

“After you and him started seeing each other, was it difficult for you with Lisa?” 

“Oh god, yes,” he huffed loudly, “So hard. So, so hard.” He buried his head in his hands to hide his embarrassment, “She actually said I should see a doctor about erectile dysfunction last year.” He sat up straight then before continuing, “I considered it for a while, because sometimes it was tough for me with Miles too, but it was just guilt. I was thirty, not sixty.” 

“That makes sense,” she closed her book, “This is great progress, Waylon, I’m very proud of you.” 

He gave a forced smile and averted his eyes again. 

“Obviously you shouldn’t make any rash decisions, but in your goals page of your notebook, I want you to think about your options for when you get out of here-” she pointed her pen at him, “Notice I said when, not if – like if you think you and Lisa should stay together.” 

Waylon’s face fell. 

“I know that’s tough to hear, and she is your best friend, but sometimes you have to think about what is best for you and her in the long run, Waylon, not always what people expect of you.”

That made complete sense, but still Waylon didn’t want to hear it. 

“Just think about it. Anything else you want to talk about today?” 

Waylon shook his head, and he was excused. He ate dinner in his room that night, just like usual, and he stared at the notebook on his desk. Writing yesterday had helped, but right now he had so many words running through his head that he had no idea how to even start his letter. He decided to leave it for another day. 

Another day turned into a week later. Still, every day he would take his meds, eat meals in his room, and have short but helpful meetings with Doctor Darnielle. Every day she would ask him if he had written another letter, and every day she didn’t press him to write it, just left him with a “Well, maybe something exciting will happen soon, and you’ll want to tell somebody.” 

This came in the form of him finally working up the courage to sit in the cafeteria during lunch. Instead of getting to the food line late, he got in very early so he was at the beginning, and quickly sat down at the back of the room. He didn’t want to sit at a busy table, he didn’t want to talk to anybody, but just being in a room with the general populous was an accomplishment, and a step to something bigger. Besides, high school drama had conditioned him to hate cafeteria settings like this one. 

Nobody bugged him that day, and there were no incidents. From his table, he could see Derrick being lectured by an orderly, but he didn’t look so skeletal and eventually he swallowed a few pieces of food and drank a thick, purple-looking drink. Waylon was proud of him, even if he didn’t know him. 

So the day after he went to eat lunch there as well. Then the day after that, and the one after that, but only lunch, never dinner. It was nice to feel like part of society again, even if it was a bit of a stretch. 

On the sixth day of sitting in the cafeteria, somebody sat across from him, and it startled him almost to the point of a small panic attack. 

“Hey, I’m Louise.” 

She was short like him, with mahogany hair and light blue eyes that contrasted his grey ones. She had bandages on her arms that peaked out from under her cherry red sweater as she poked at the food on her tray. 

He didn’t respond, which made her look up at him, “It’s okay if you don’t want me here, I’ll leave. Just see you sitting here all by yourself and think you must be lonely.” He noticed that she had a thick New Jersey accent. He had never been to New Jersey before. 

“Are you mute?” 

“No,” he suddenly realized he was staring, “No, sorry, you just kind of scared me, that’s all.” 

“Oh sorry, bud, didn’t mean to,” she popped a piece of broccoli into her mouth, “Should’ve been more careful.” 

“It’s fine,” he picked up his plastic fork, “I’m Waylon.” 

“That’s an original name,” she grinned around the vegetables, “Where you from?” 

This was getting weirder by the second, but still Waylon managed a reply, “I was born in Seattle, but I’ve lived in Leadville since I was eleven.” 

“Never been to Seattle. I’m from Jersey.” 

Waylon pat himself on the back. He knew that already.

“You can eat lunch with us, you know,” she pointed to a group of people a few tables down, “We don’t bite.” 

The offer was extremely kind, and the table looked quiet enough, but the thought of being in a group setting was very intimidating to Waylon. The thought alone made his stomach tighten to knots, but he brushed it off. 

“Thanks for the offer but I don’t think I’m ready for that sort of thing.” 

“It’s alright,” replied Louise right away, “Mind if I join you for lunch sometimes though?” 

She looked up at him through her eyelashes and he couldn’t quite read the look on her face. It wasn’t bored, but she definitely wasn’t trying to impress him or anything either. 

“Sure, I’d love that.” 

“Awesome,” she grinned with food still in her mouth, “Wanna tell me about yourself? Or I could tell you about me? Or we could just sit quietly, that’s cool too.” 

Waylon thought he quite liked Louise, “Well, my name is Waylon, you know… and I guess, I’m thirty-two, I’ve never been to a place like this before.” 

Louise nodded and pushed her food around so it was all far away from the other items on the plate, “I’ve been in and out since I was in high school,” she motioned around with her fork, “It’s really not so bad. How you findin’ it?” 

“I don’t know, it’s…” he looked around, “It’s not quite home, but there are worse places to be.” 

“I hear ya’,” she nodded again, “Home for me is the In-N-Out Burger on Terrance and 46th, where I had my first kiss. What about you?” 

Never before had he thought of home like that before, but the silly yet sentimental story brought a smile to his face. 

“My boyfriend’s apartment.” The words just slipped out before he could think twice, filling him with instant regret, but Louise quickly responded. 

“Wow, that is much nicer than a burger joint between a daycare and a strip club.” 

Waylon laughed a little, which felt amazing, especially when Louise laughed back, knowing it wasn’t at her expense. 

“You’re a cool guy, Waylon, your boyfriend is lucky.” 

“Actually he um…” he pushed his broccoli around with the end of his fork, “He isn’t around anymore.” 

“I’m sorry for your loss, then,” she sipped her lemonade, “Neither is mine, but he’s still kickin’ somewhere.” 

Eventually lunchtime was over, and Louise said goodbye and that she would probably see him tomorrow. He hoped so. She was really nice and very real; he could feel that about her. Everything he said was so genuine, unlike the orderlies who treated them like they were a little too delicate. He made sure to tell Doctor Darnielle about his talk with Louise, and of course she was over the moon as expected, asking him to speak with her again if tomorrow permitted. 

It did, and he sat with her the day after that as well. Eventually they began conversing like nobody’s business, and Waylon soon came to realize that unlike normal conversation where you worry that you have said the wrong thing at all times, Louise never felt like that. She always just said what felt right, and encouraged him to do the same, but never pushed for anything. One day she even told him that if he never wanted to tell her why he was in there, he didn’t have to, and if he ever wanted to ask her why she was, he totally could and she wouldn’t be mad. Eventually, he did. 

Apparently Louise has had severe Obsessive Compulsive Disorder ever since she was young, but as she got older it got worse and worse. Waylon has never had OCD like her, but he always assumed it was just something small that everybody experienced at one time or another. Louise assured him that this was not the case, and explained that her OCD was so bad that even the smallest things out of place set her off, and the stress eventually became so severe that she tried to take her own life, which explained the bandages. 

But she was working on getting better. Her boyfriend left her because he couldn’t handle it, and the authorities made her come here, but over the months she had been here she had apparently made leaps and bounds of progress. She always kept her bed neat and didn’t like it when her food touched or when the books on her shelf weren’t arranged by size, but she no longer ripped her hair out when they searched her room or tried to hurt herself on the days where nothing seemed to go right, and she was very proud of it. Waylon told her he was proud of her too. Then she told him that her passion was cooking, and she was doing this mostly so that she could cook and make a mess without her affecting her OCD so severely. 

Eventually Louise convinced him to sit at her table that she normally sat at. She introduced Markus, a mechanic with an eating disorder, Pei, a writer who happened to have severe bipolar depression, and Jaime, who made art that was incredible but also had very violent schizophrenia. These people never asked what happened to him, and they never expected him to share, and he would come to learn that all of these people may have had these afflictions, but that wasn’t their identity. 

Finally, he worked himself up to write in his journal again, and just like the first time, the words started flowing out of him like he had written it before. 

_”Dear Miles,”_

_”You’d be proud of me, I’m being social. Even more social than before. It’s weird, but I think people in here are just easier to talk to than other people. First I met Louise, who I think you’d love, she’s a riot, then she introduced me to her friends Pei, Jaime, and Markus. They’re very nice, and don’t care that most days I don’t feel like talking.”_

_”Sometimes I do talk though. They know about you and Lisa, they say they hope they get to meet Lisa one day, and they’re sorry they won’t get to know you, because you both sound great. I assured them you were, and even though you’re an ass and Lisa is the most amazing and intimidating woman on the planet, you would get along with them great. They don’t know what happened, and I really don’t think they care, or at least they don’t care if I don’t want to tell them. That makes me feel good, and sometimes I can pretend that this whole thing never happened and that we’re just back in high school or chatting in the break room or something.”_

_”I think I’m going to tell them what happened one of these days. I’m not sure exactly when, but soon. Even if they don’t push me, I feel guilty that I know their stories, but they don’t really know mine. I suppose you and Lisa are most of it, but you know what I mean. The only people that really know the whole story are my therapists, and me I guess. I hope they believe me, since it’s a little hard to believe, I think.”_

_”Also, they know that you’re my boyfriend and Lisa is my wife. They didn’t even react, they just said ‘Oh, what are they like?’ and that really made me feel good. Nothing is a big deal here unless you want it to be. Jaime had a really bad episode the other day, he joined the group the next day like nothing even happened, even though we all saw it. A few minutes later he said his girlfriend was coming to visit (like she does every week) and we all celebrated and gave him our Jello cups. That’s just how things are here, I guess, and even though I’m working on getting out of here, I really am going to miss how easy and simple things are. It’s much less anxiety inducing than socializing in the outside world, until you think about how we’re all actually stuck here because we’re considered a detriment to ourselves and/or other people, then it’s not so nice. But hey, we’re making the best with what we’ve got, right? I think I’ve also been putting off talking about what happened because talk of Mount Massive has been kept to a minimum since I got here, and I don’t want it to suddenly start back up now, when I’m just starting to learn how to handle losing you. One step at a time, right?”_

_”Sometimes when we’re talking, I don’t even feel guilty about you, which makes me even guiltier later, but I can’t really help that. I still miss you, so much so that it hurts, but I think the situation is started to make sense to me now. Things are getting clearer, I’m learning to accept things a bit more. Of course I’ll never get over you, but I just have to accept that you’re gone, and that’s the way things are now. Doctor Darnielle says that’s a big step.”_

_”Tonight I’m thinking about that night we saw that band you like in concert, the one that started with metal and changed to something super soft? How we were a state over, and surrounded by the crowd, so during you favourite song I pulled you in and kissed you, and your face just lit up like a Christmas tree. That was one of the best nights of my life, and kissing you in public was like tearing away ugly wrapping paper on a present to discover the best gift underneath. Telling my friends what happened is the ugly wrapping paper, the gift underneath is the relief of telling them what happened, being on completely equal ground with other people for the first time in months. I’m terrified, and excited, and I’m going to think about that night in Arizona at that concert when I kissed you and everything was okay for a while.”_

_”Love, Waylon.”_


	3. Chapter 3

The next day at lunch he sat at his table as usual. Pei was telling some elaborate story from her childhood that she was planning on turning into a short story. It was really good, and Waylon was very excited to read it, but he just couldn’t quite focus completely. He was kind of a one-track mind, and right now he was building up the courage to speak up about the event that brought him to this point. 

“Hey guys,” he interrupted their dull chatter as he pushed his corn around with a plastic spork, “Can I tell you why I’m here?” 

All of their faces remained neutral as they nodded and ushered him to continue. 

“Of course, Way,” Louise assured him, “You can tell us whatever you’d like.” 

“So… I’m a software engineer, and I used to work for this company…” 

Waylon went on to explain the whole thing. How they cut off contact with his wife, his family, everybody in the outside world, and kept him at the facility. He explained that it was a mental asylum, very different from his ward, and how they were doing illegal experimentation on the patients. He recalled the riot that set him free, but he saved all the gory details, just saying vague explanations for everything that didn’t give too much away, but gave you the big picture. It was awful, they understood that, and he didn’t really feel like reliving his experiences with Eddie, Frank, or Jeremy Blaire at the moment either. 

“Then when I left in the Jeep, I didn’t realise that it was Miles’ before it was too late. Now he’s a missing person, and I don’t think I’ll ever know what happened to him.” 

The entire table was silent for a moment, and it would have been awkward if it weren’t for the dull roar that always filled the cafeteria space. Then, Markus spoke suddenly. 

“Is that how you hurt your leg?” 

“Yeah,” he involuntarily gripped his jeans, “I fell down on elevator shaft while I was running.” 

“How bad did you hurt it?” asked Pei. 

“Not too bad. I think it’s pretty much healed, it hasn’t been hurting as much lately.” 

“But you still have a limp, will you always have that?” asked Louise, not meaning to be rude or intrusive. 

But Waylon hadn’t realized he still had a limp.

“I don’t…” he stared down at his foot, “I don’t know. I’m not sure.” 

“Well,” Jaime quickly interrupted, “Thanks for telling us Waylon, that was really brave of you.”

“Yeah, I couldn’t imagine that, it sounds horrible,” added Pei with a mouthful of corn.

“But it’s really cool, y’know,” Louise started, “How you’re still kickin’ around to tell your story.” 

Waylon smiled and nodded, continuing to eat his food, and the small bit of food that Markus forced onto his plate as well. It had gone well, much better than he had expected it to, and he didn’t even cry once. The only thing that bothered him, that he couldn’t quite shake, was how he hadn’t realized that he still had a limp. There was no reason he should, his ankle had no nerve damage and was supposed to heal up completely. As well, it had barely bothered him at all these past few weeks, and he had begun to think it was completely healed. 

He decided to bring it up to Doctor Darnielle that night. He didn’t immediately sit down in the chair, feeling a little antsy and closed in, but eventually she poured him some tea and managed to convince him to sit. 

“I told my friends what happened today.” 

The brunette nodded slowly, “Not too much, I hope.” 

“No, I left out the cannibal bits,” he ran his thumb along the rim of the cup, “But they told me something that I didn’t realize before, and now it’s really bothering me.” 

She opened her notebook to prepare for the new information. 

“Why am I still limping?”

Her eyebrow raised, “You injured your leg, remember?” 

“Yeah, but it’s not injured anymore,” he motioned to it, “Doctor Arkette said there was no nerve damage, a-and it doesn’t hurt anymore.” 

The doctor looked perplexed but still didn’t give away any signs that she was too concerned. “Does it sometimes hurt more when you’re stressed or anxious about something?” 

Waylon thought for a moment, “It ached a bit the other day when that storm passed through, but I just assumed it was because of the cold.”

“Yes, that could be the case,” she explained, “But it could also be a psychosomatic issue.”

The blond stayed silent for a moment, “So it’s not really injured anymore?” 

“Sometimes even medical professions are wrong, so I will schedule another appointment with Doctor Arkette for you, but I also think that it’s a possibility,” she wrote up a note on her itinerary to remind her to book the appointment, “It’s just a suggestion. Many times our emotional trauma manifests in more physical ways, stomach aches when we’re anxious or headaches when we’re stressed. Sometimes it’s easier to deal with that way.” 

Despite her reassurance, Waylon still gripped his pant leg tightly. 

“How exactly did you hurt your leg, may I ask?” 

Oh boy, here it goes. They’re finally bringing up Mount Massive. 

“I was being chased by… a man. His name was Edward Gluskin, and he was convinced that the other inmates were his brides,” his blue eyes bore into the ceiling as he continued whilst staving off tears, “I found his file, and apparently he had been sexually abused by his father and uncle for years, so I guess… he killed women, but since there were no women at Mount Massive, he just had to make do.” 

This was the first time in all their sessions that the doctor had looked slightly unsettled. 

“I jumped onto a latter in a broken elevator shaft, but it broke and my foot went through the top of the lift box.” 

Darnielle bit her lip and looked down at her papers, going over her next move. 

“You often scream the name Eddie in your sleep, Waylon, that’s what some of the orderlies have told me,” she looked up, “Is this the same person?” 

Waylon nodded slowly. 

“Did he… do anything to you, Waylon?” 

“H-He-“ his voice croaked and he cleared his throat, “He caught me, I watched him- I watched him cast-castrate a few men, I-“ he sucked in a breath and held it, eyes shut and brow tensed as he tried to force the memories out, “He had me strapped to a table, but another patient distracted him, and I managed to get out.” 

“Thank you for trusting me with this,” the doctor finally spoke, “What happened to Edward, do you know?” 

“He died. I watched him die,” he rubbed at his eyes, “After I escaped he chased me into the gym, where the rest of his brides were strung – strung up. He hung me, but I struggled. Something snapped, he was stabbed, I kept moving.” 

When he finally looked up and saw the doctor’s face going from very unnerved to completely blank. She finally closed all over her books and filed her papers away before she gave her two cents, brushing her long, dark hair back from her face. 

“I feel like that’s enough talk of Murkoff today, don’t you?” she gave a small half-hearted smile, “How are your friends doing?”

“They’re pretty good, I think.” 

“I don’t treat Markus or Pei, just Jaime and Louise. They’re quite fond of you, I think.” 

The blond couldn’t help the smirk that etched its way onto his face, “I hope so, I like them too. They’re so… open-minded.” 

“Maybe this is a sign that we can try some group therapy sessions soon? Maybe even see about moving you to general housing,” she made a vague gesture with her hand, “Just a suggestion, but maybe think about it. No rush, just weigh your options.” 

Even though he greatly appreciated his newfound companions, the thought of losing his privacy, or facing strangers in a group setting, was worrisome. He knew it had to happen sooner or later, he was only supposed to have his own room until they figured out how he reacted to the other patients, but since his therapy had been slow rolling in the beginning it had taken longer than expected. “No rush,” Darnielle had said, but he knew there was a waitlist for beds at the establishment, and overflow was getting worse as the weather began to cool. 

The book he had received from the library was a welcome distraction that night. It was an adult novel, one of the few he could find that seemed interesting, and kept his attention throughout the first few chapters enough that now he was fully immersed. It was a fantasy book about a medieval world ravaged by dragons, and the main character was a very lovable (and apparently quite dashing) dragon activist and knight named Aylwin. Always an avid fan of Game of Thrones and missing the land of Westeros terribly, he let himself get lost in the fantasy tale. 

It was during a heated battle between Aylwin and the king of a neighbouring land over the rights of dragons that Waylon was startled from his distracted state by a loud, blaring alarm. It didn’t sound quite like a fire alarm or one of the emergency exits being opened; he had never heard it before. 

The nightly patrol nurse stuck her head in his room, eyes frantic and looking frizzled as ever. “Everything is fine. I’m locking your door, okay Waylon?”

He nodded out of reflex, but really he was beginning to panic. Why were they locking the doors? If it was some kind of emergency than he should be leaving. He shouldn’t be stuck here. They were keeping him… contained. He was a prisoner in his own space, and if he couldn’t get out-

He began to panic. Clutching his overgrown mop of hair in his fingers and burying his head in his knees, the fairy tale slipping off his covers and onto the floor, spread open. In this state of panic, he couldn’t really find it in himself to care. Despite the well-lit room, its sanitary state and clean, blood-free walls, he was suddenly back in Mount Massive, alarms wailing loudly like a banshee. It was suffocating, and within minutes he could feel a sheen of sweat over his forehead and back, soaking through his thin t-shirt. 

Waylon knew that he may have been a captive of Murkoff, but he was never a patient. He wasn’t like Frank, or Chris, or Eddie. Sure, Mount Massive had done him dirty, stripped him of his life and humanity and dehumanized him beyond relief to the point of involuntary admission yet again, but he would never know quite what it was like to live full-time as a prisoner of the mountain. Apart from a few superficial scars and a limp that plagued him consistently, he had no mutilations like Chris Walker’s third eye, no ideations about life like Edward Gluskin and his grooms, and he had not been subjected to the engine enough that it clouded his vision or made him see a gospel that wasn’t there, it only hindered his television watching and sometimes listening to the radio. No, he would never know what it was like to have your family abandon you in your greatest time of need, and send you to a horror house that promised treatment but instead infected further, for years, and years on end. 

No, he was the one who abandoned his family, and the misunderstood men at Mount Massive who had caused the riots, who terrorized him and burned the place both metaphorically and literally to the ground, were the reason he would live to see the sun rise another day. 

Waylon didn’t get to sleep that night. Eventually the alarm stopped, he could he hear people rushing back and forth outside of his door, but the door didn’t unlock or open until the next morning when his nurse stepped in with a drink and his medication, and found him sitting up against his wall, still hiding his head in his knees. 

Getting up was a struggle, but he managed. He decided to skip the walk and reading, his eyelids were heavy and there was a pounding in his head that refused to cease so he knew it would do him no good. The lights in the hall and the cafeteria were too bright and burned the back of his irises, but he managed to get in the very back of the line, and made his way over to the table where they usually sat. 

Everybody else seemed sluggish and tired as well, and he blamed the alarms. No doubt they had been heard from every other area of the ward, and he was sure nobody could have slept through them. Pei was practically falling asleep in her book, slowly scooping peas with her fork and bringing them up to her mouth, often missing. Jaime was pushing his potatoes around absentmindedly and murmuring softly about a book he was reading on Andy Warhol to Louise, who was staring down at her well-organized tray with dark, emotionless eyes. 

“Hey,” he greeted softly, “Where’s Mark?” 

All three of them looked up slowly. 

“You mean…” started Jaime, “You didn’t hear?” 

A heavy weight settled in his chest, putting pressure against his diaphragm and making him hold his breath, but he shook his head. 

“Markus is-“ Pei’s breath hitched and she suddenly ducked her head. 

“He died, Waylon,” said Louise bluntly, “He hung himself last night.” 

The familiar prick of tears stung at the blond’s eyes, “B-But they always… they watch-“ 

“They don’t know how he got the belt,” she shook her head, “I know you’re not used to it, but you better get to it quick,” the redhead shovelled some of the mash into her mouth, “Somebody else is gonna take his place soon.” 

The weight in his chest tightened and sunk deeper, constricting his entire abdomen and all his organs. Everything was tight, the lights were too bright, and suddenly everything was too hot. 

Suddenly Doctor Darnielle rushed into the room, and immediately locked eyes with him, a look of distress on her face.

He barely made it to the washroom in time, not bothering to switch the handle to ‘do not disturb’ or make any attempt at closing the door behind him. As soon as he was up, a nurse was standing in the doorframe. 

“Are you alright, pumpkin?” 

He nodded hastily, clutching the toilet seat. 

“Are you not feeling well or should-“

“I’ll take it from here,” Darnielle interrupted, kneeling beside him, “You heard?” 

He gagged but held it down, nodding quickly as he grounded himself against the off-white porcelain.

“Oh Waylon, I’m sorry,” she shook her head, “I was a bit late getting out the door this morning, that’s when I got the call-“ her apology stopped short as his dry heaving halted. He sunk to his knees completely, letting his head rest against the back of the toilet, cool porcelain wicking sweat from his brow and a dazed look on his face as he met the woman’s eyes. 

“Markus wasn’t in general housing, right?” 

“Waylon, I-“ 

“Please, just-“ he sucked in a heavy breath, “He was in a two-bedroom. What about his roommate?” 

The brunette ran a hand through her hair and stood, letting her weight fall against the far wall by the door, “His roommate was just released, he was waiting on a transfer from another clinic.” 

He shut his eyes gently, “Overcrowd?” 

She hesitated, but finally answered “The faculty… wasn’t equipped to deal with this particular patient. They need to be integrated into a social setting again.” 

Waylon never thought of himself as an overly empathetic person, but in that moment of sheer overwhelming dread and nausea, he couldn’t help but feel for whoever was rooming with Markus that night. Now that he was thinking about the new transfer, who was supposed to room with Mark, who would be left alone for nights until another full transfer could be made, just like Mark. 

_’Get used to it’_ Louise had said, but how could he? There was no reason why this should be so normal, why it should have elicited such a small reaction. Sure, the others may have been desensitized, but he now knows that in his life, there were many things he could have prevented if only he had put others before himself, and maybe this was one of them. 

“I’ll room with them.” 

The therapist was quiet, thinking, tapping her finger against her elbow as she ran over the pros and cons. 

“Get off the bathroom floor, and we’ll talk.” 

They walked back through the cafeteria, none of the patients even batting an eye after Waylon’s (not so) sudden outburst. He quickly offered his food to Jaime, who pulled it closer but eyed it funnily. He said he would talk later to explain, but they just nodded passively. Louise put a juice box down on the counter and signalled for him to take it, and they sent him on his way to follow the good doctor to her office. 

“Why do you want to be transferred suddenly?” 

“Because the new transfer will be alone, right?” He started again before he could get a reply, “a-and you want me to try communal housing anyway?” 

“Waylon,” she leaned in over the desk, “You have to understand that it’s not as simple as it appears. You don’t want this to happen again, neither do I, so you’re offering to move to communal without any prior information. You don’t know the patient’s diagnosis, their mental state, if their psychosis would interfere with yours-“ 

“No,” he interrupted, “No, I don’t, but I know that Markus was left alone to his thoughts for just a night and it was too much, and that this transfer, whoever they are and whatever their story is, will be moving to a new facility, into a room by themself, where somebody only recently took their own life, and that’s not ideal for anybody.” 

She chewed her top lip before sighing and pulling a file out from one of her drawers. 

“I’m a bit hesitant because you haven’t really had much time with other patients and-“ dark blue eyes met mousey brown, “I haven’t been told much, but it sounds like you’re both quite similar.” 

“Wouldn’t that be good? Honestly I doubt that’s true, but wouldn’t it be better for me to have somebody to talk to who is experiencing something a bit closer to what I am?” 

“Please Waylon, everybody processes trauma differently, this is a delicate issue-“

“Just-“ he flattened his empty juice box out as he spoke, “Please, consider the transfer.” 

She raised her hands defensively, shaking her head with an exasperated sigh. 

“He arrives tomorrow night, I can help you move your stuff during tomorrow’s session.” 

He thanked her for considering, and for trying to find him before the others could break the news beforehand. He was almost glad it had been Louise to tell him, that seemed fitting. Doctor Darnielle had never treated Markus, she didn’t know him, he wanted the words to come from somebody else who felt the loss just as he did, not some jaded medical professional who had been through the process a thousand times. That was disingenuous, unfair to Markus who could no longer be coddled and treated softly like they tried to do to his friends who would receive the news. 

The moment he returned to his room, he made sure everything was organised. Every book he would wish to reread, every outfit, or small personal item that he had was tucked away for easy access so that, if given the go ahead, he could move at a moment’s notice. He picked the novel he had been reading last night off the ground and put his bookmark back in it, then set it down at the small desk next to his journal that had been left untouched for the past while. It seemed like today if any was a good day to write down his thoughts. 

_”Dear Miles,”_

_”When I was in Mount Massive I kept repeating to myself ‘I’m not like these people!’ and ‘I don’t belong here!’. It was pretty much all that kept me sane at the time. People were killing other people, some were eating others, mutilating their bodies and putting them on display, and I thought I would never do anything like that, and that is what separated me from the others.”_

_”I realize now that it’s not exactly true. Don’t dial 9-1-1 just yet, I’m not about to pull a Hannibal Lecter and make a mad dash for the exits, but being here has made me realize that not much separates me from those men at the mountain. Some were in trouble before Murkoff, like Eddie, who I hope you never had the pleasure of meeting. He was hurt badly by people close to him as a kid, into his teens, maybe even after. When he grew up, he hurt women because that was better than thinking about these things again, his brain just couldn’t process what had happened. I’m sure there were many like him, but you can’t help but wonder how many were in the wrong place at the wrong time, and were just pushed that extra inch closer to the edge that I wasn’t. It seems like nowadays we’re quick to diagnose, but not quick to understand **why** exactly, and I understand that now. Rather than see somebody in pain and suffering, we like to demonize them so their pain doesn’t effect us anymore, so it’s easier to ignore. I consider myself lucky that we were able to prove that I was in my right mind before this whole deal, but now I can’t help but think of all the people who weren’t so lucky.”_

_”My case made it in court. The jurors will empathise with me because I am young, and well off, and it hurts to see somebody you can relate to in pain. We could even lie further and say Lisa and I were planning on starting our own family soon, I bet that would really get the hearts bleeding. What about Eddie? He was a victim too just as much as I was, and it’s unfair that the men who were just like me at one point, who maybe had childhoods rougher than mine or just weren’t built quite like I was, finally fought back and it’s me that made it out, it’s **me** that’s getting justice, not them; not the men who suffered for things beyond their control and paid for my freedom with their life.”_

_”I’m writing this because my friend Markus, one of the four from lunch, died last night. Our beds may be hard and the food may be bland, but the walls are covered in art and photos of sunsets and beaches far away, and the doctors are soft-spoken and are well equipped for all of our needs, mental and physical, yet he still couldn’t handle it. It wasn’t enough for him. See, Mark was a tough guy. He had struggled with bulimia for years, ever since high school, and when he was admitted he was just about to finish up at college. Do you know how terrible eating disorders are? Unimaginable. He was one of the strongest people I have ever met. Just a few months ago he started to eat in the cafeteria without getting sick, and last week he ate an entire cup of fruit salad and a hot dog with a proud smile on his face for the first time since he was admitted, but it’s never just one thing, you know. He was only alone one night. One night, one belt, and that’s all it took. So I can’t help but wonder, if somebody as strong as Mark couldn’t hold out here, how strong must the men at Mount Massive had been? Or maybe I should be asking how far they had been stretched to the point where human emotions weren’t quite so upfront, maybe even gone completely.”_

_”My doctor has been urging me to start participating more, so I’m going to move into his room with a new transfer. I don’t know who it is yet, or what they might be experiencing, but I know that being alone is hell no matter what, especially in a place like this. I can’t help but wonder who it will be. Probably a man, and Doctor Darnielle said we’re alike, which could literally mean anything from blond hair to severe psychological trauma, so that’s vague and gives me nothing to work with. I feel like I’ve become less judgemental since I came here, so I don’t think I’ll mind regardless of who they turn out to be, I just hope we can maybe connect on something that isn’t us just being stuck here. Maybe he will like a band that you liked, and I’ll know it, and I’ll be able to explain that my boyfriend told me about it. Maybe we’ll bond over something you liked, and maybe I’ll feel a little closer to you for a little while, that’d be nice.”_

_”I know I’ve made progress, and I like to think that I’ve improved, but the truth is I don’t know if that’s true. I feel like I’m not getting better. Hopefully this new living situation helps this. I think maybe being away from you for so long is making me feel like this. Anyway, I love you, and I hope things work out.”_

_”Love, Waylon.”_


	4. Chapter 4

As usual, Waylon read it over, wrote the date down, and set his journal back on the desk before changing into some comfortable clothes and settling under the covers. Taylor in the room beside him is crying and a few nurses go to talk to him, but eventually it quiets down, and Waylon is left in the quiet darkness of the sterile-feeling room. He doesn’t know how long he sleeps, but when the light eventually shines through the only window in his room and there is a knock at his door signalling the nurse is here, he feels slightly less tired, which means he must have slept for at least a little while. 

He skips lunch. It makes him feel a little bad for Pei, Jaime, and Louise. They’re probably worried about him, but even the thought of food is putting him off, so he doesn’t want to think about it. Instead, he takes a long, long walk around the property (even though it’s cold and sprinkling) and he puts all his belongings in a neat pile on his desk, makes his bed, and finally gathers all his books. 

Doctor Darnielle finds him eventually. She greets him with a warm, practiced smile and motions for her to follow him. On the way to the other side of the ward, she explains that his new roommate should be arriving shortly. 

“Can I ask?” he says as they walk in step, short legs matching stride.

“I’ve spoken to him once,” she says, “He’s nice. Quiet, easily spooked, but nice. You’re pretty good with people so I’m not too worried.” 

He nods, “You said we’re similar?” 

“An official diagnosis hasn’t been made yet,” they see a nurse waiting for them by a door and slow slightly, “He experienced severe psychological trauma, hallucinations, blatant signs of post-traumatic stress-“ the nurse hands her the keys and she begins to unlock the door, “But he’s safe, and he’s been opening up more. Just in case we’ll just ask that your door stays open but-“ she swings the door open slowly and ushers him inside, “I think this will do you both some good.” 

Taking in the room, Waylon takes a few calculated steps inside. The walls are the same colour as his first room, a soft white with scuff marks and a patch of grey by the headboard of a bed. There’s one on each side, as well as a desk and a small chest of drawers. There is no bookshelf, probably due to the lack of room, but he can see that there is already some books lined up on the desk by the window, and he doesn’t have too many himself, so this shouldn’t be a problem. 

He spins on his heels and looks at the other side of the room. On the far wall by the door there are marks and holes in the drywall that look like maybe there had been something protruding that somebody had removed. It was probably where Markus hung himself, maybe a pipe or beam leftover from construction, but he tried not to dwell on it. 

“Is that alright, Waylon?” the doctor breaks the thick silence, “You’re not having second thoughts?” 

“No,” he shakes his head, “Just a bit nervous.” 

The doctor understands. She smiles again, walking a bit more into the room and looking around herself, “It’s not too different, and you have your books,“ she motions to them, “Maybe one of these days we can get a computer back in your hands and you can show us what you’re made of, eh?” 

The thought of being back behind a keyboard excited him, but he just responded with a small absentminded smile and sat down on the bed. 

“I’ll let you get to it then,” the doctor began leaving, “If there’s anything else you need, let me know. I’ll be his primary doctor, so I have to have a meeting with him when he first arrives, so I’ll be back in a bit.” 

Being left alone in the room with the ominous marks on the wall was unsettling. Like the doctor said, the door was left slightly ajar as he put his stuff in one side of the chest of drawers. He hoped the man was neat, he didn’t know if he could handle living with a slob, so he stacked his clothes neatly and left the rest of the drawers for his new roommate. The chest was well used and slightly beaten, and inside the top drawer he could see little engravings, presumably from previous users. He wondered if any of the “M” engravings had been Markus, and it brought tears to his eyes. 

Next, he stacked his books on the top of the others. They were neatly lined up, a few books on astrology, a couple trashy romance novels, and then the last; a thick bound hardcover copy of a horror novel with an obnoxiously familiar cover, and a couple classic car and mechanic magazines.

Waylon once again began crying. Which was strange, because he was never really a crier, but the white walls and melancholy aura of the hospital just seemed to bring that out in him. 

But Waylon knew that any minute now, his therapist and new roommate could walk through those doors, so he picked up his half-finished novel and began composing himself. First impressions were everything, and he owed it to this man to give him some hope of this place. 

He never fully relaxed or lost himself in the adventures of Aylwin as he had so many times before, but eventually his eyes stopped stinging and his cheeks were no longer flushed, and that was enough. Somewhere through the fourth to last chapter, there was a knock at on the doorframe. 

“Hey,” interrupted Darnielle, “I’ve got your new roomy.” 

He was much taller than both of them. He was easily a head taller than the therapist, and Way was sure that if he would stand up straight he would be even more so. His hair was curled slightly and very dark, maybe black but he couldn’t quite tell in the light. His shoulders were wide and his jaw was defined, but Waylon could tell from how the sweatshirt and loose joggers he was wearing hung off of him that he was lean, maybe even skinny. There was light stubble that dusted his face, and he wore glasses that were very similar to Waylon’s own, shielding a pair of dead, tired eyes. 

“Waylon, this is Blake,” the doctor motioned to the man as well as she could with her arms full, “Blake, this is Waylon.” 

Blake did not move to shake his hand, which meant one of two things; either he also was extremely anxious about human contact, or Doctor Darnielle had given him the rundown of Waylon’s aversion to being handed things or touched. From the way he was also avoiding eye contact, he presumed it was the latter, but maybe it was both. 

“Nice to meet you,” Waylon tried to give him a warm smile but made no move to get up. 

“Y-Yeah,” the larger man stammered, “Likewise.” 

Doctor Darnielle made sure Blake was alright and alerted a nurse that she was leaving before heading back to her office, leaving Waylon alone with the man. It was awkward, something hanging thick in the air that made his skin tingle with annoyance and discomfort. 

Over the edge of his book, he could see Blake shifting a bit. He held his personal items close to his chest and made no move to sit down, which in turn was unsettling Waylon a bit. He decided to lower his book, looking back up at the new acquaintance. 

“You can put your stuff away if you’d like.” He motioned to the old oak chest, “The drawers on the left are yours, and that’s your bed.” 

Blake pushed his glasses up his nose and held the clothes and things a little tighter to his chest, “I know, I’m just… I’m a little worried about… sanitation.” 

Waylon noticed then that his swear sleeves were pulled over his hands, but from the small sliver of space he could see, the man was wearing gloves of some kind. 

“The room was cleaned before we got here, but I can ask if your sheets could be washed again, if you want-“

“N-No, it’s – it’s fine,” he hesitantly sat on the edge of the bed, closest to the door and further from Waylon, “So you just got here too?” 

Waylon closed his book and set it down, “No, I’ve been here a while, but I was by myself.” 

The dark-haired man nodded, but still looked quite unsettled. His attention seemed to be equally divided between Waylon, the bed beneath him, and the door, like everything was out to get him. His germ phobia must be pretty extreme if this was setting him off. 

“I’m usually pretty tidy, but if you’re uncomfortable you could always see about moving to a room by yourself? Doctor Darnielle would help you.” 

Blake’s eyes finally met his for a moment, a look of confusion crossed his face. 

“This is part of my treatment,” he motioned around him, “I have to get used to… I don’t know, normal fucking people and their bodily functions. Thank you though,” he forced a smile, showing his words held no ill intent, “I appreciate the sentiment.” 

“I don’t mean to pry,” added a worrying Waylon, “If I’m ever doing something you don’t like, just tell me.” 

Once more, Blake gave him a blank look. Then he stood, opening a drawer and putting some of the clothes inside before sitting back on the bed and shuffling so his back was against the wall. 

“You know,” his voice was suddenly a bit quieter, “You’re the first person to say something like that.” 

Waylon’s head cocked a bit. 

“Even the doctors, they’re all about pushing me. I know I should, that’s how you get better, but it’s… just thanks, for keeping me in mind.” 

The man didn’t smile, but the look on his face was soft, and relieved, betraying his tense posture. He was genuinely grateful for the small bit of human decency Waylon had showed him, and it warmed the smaller man a bit. 

“You can’t be judgemental in here,” he explained, “You just can’t. There are bigger things to worry about, so we just have to look out for each other. I won’t ask, by the way,” he gestured vaguely to Blake, “You can tell me what happened if that makes you feel better, but I won’t ask.” 

The man’s shoulders had relaxed a bit. He had his eyes trained on the floor, but he was worrying his bottom lip between his teeth and nodding along to the information, signalling that he was thinking about it. Waylon hoped that the small reassurance help him relax, that would be best on both of them. 

“Hey,” the blond ducked his head out the door to look at the hallway clock, “Are you hungry? It’s almost dinner.” 

“I don’t… is there like, a cafeteria? Or nurses or something that will-“ 

“Cafeteria,” interrupted Waylon, “But if you want, I can go and bring you something back?” 

Blake thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No, I’ll go.” 

Waylon stood and the raven-haired man followed close behind, enough that he could feel his presence but not enough to touch. Now that they were in such close proximity, he could feel just how much the other man towered over him. He didn’t loom though, he gave some space, and Waylon appreciated that. There is nothing worse than that sense of dread that somebody is on your back at all times. 

The cafeteria was bustling a bit, but it seemed a little calmer than lunch usually was. He had never been in the room for supper, lunch had always felt like quite enough, but it didn’t seem to be too bad. 

They got in the back of the line, and Waylon made sure Blake was behind him. He didn’t want him to feel crowded. The man’s face looked suddenly more worried as he took in the scene around them, and when his face caught the line of food behind the glass in front of them, he looked a little panicked.

“Hey, you good?” Waylon felt the urge to reach out and touch his arm, but refrained. 

“I have trouble eating… food like this, I don’t know.” 

“There’s always pre-packaged stuff, would that be better?” he pointed to a large table covered in snack foods on the far side of the room, and Blake nodded in response. 

“I think so.” 

“Okay, but could you-“ the blond’s hands instinctively flexed over the pile of red food trays on the countertop in front of him, “Sorry, I normally get a nurse to help or one of my friends, do you think you could get the food for me?” 

Blake looked a bit perplexed. 

“I can get a nurse, it’s fine-“ 

“No, it’s okay,” he picked up the top one, “I can do it.” 

They went through the line together and picked up Waylon’s food, and when they finished he followed him to the table where he picked up a bag of chips and a bottle of soda before they made their way towards a table. 

“Hey!” a familiar voice called out to him, “Waylon!” 

He turned mid-step, and saw Louise and Jaime, sitting at the end of their table beside each other. 

“Hey guys.” 

“You okay?” asked Jaime, “You seemed pretty freaked yesterday, and we stopped by your room but you weren’t there.” 

“Yeah, sorry,” he gave an apologetic smile, “Just a bit overwhelmed. Actually, I moved rooms. This is Blake,” he motioned to the taller man, “My new roommate.” 

Nobody made a comment about how the only open room left was Markus’. Not a single person. 

“Nice to meet you, Blake,” greeted Louise, and Jaime gave him a small wave as he worked on a doodle in his sketchbook. “You guys want to sit with us?” 

Waylon immediately turned to Blake, who gripped his chips a little too tightly. 

“We can go back to our room,” he whispered, “We don’t have to.” 

With a deep breath and a saccharine smile, he shook his head, “I’ve gotta push myself.” 

So they sat down together. Apparently Pei had taken Mark’s passing pretty hard, and was just being watched a little closer. She would probably be back by tomorrow, or maybe the day after. Things seemed a bit glum, but their conversation was still just as light, airy, and spontaneous as usual. Blake didn’t make a move to eat his food, but he sat and listened intently. 

“So Blake,” Louise finally turned to him, “Can we ask a bit about ya’?” 

His gloved hands moved a little further into his sweater pockets, “Like what?” 

She twirled a bit of her hair, “Liiiikkee how old are you?” 

Blake looked taken aback but eventually he stuttered out a “I’m – I’m twenty-nine.” 

That was interesting. Waylon thought he was younger. Although, it might have just been because of his lean figure, his tired eyes and eternal slouch definitely added a few years.

“And,” Jaime paused in thought for a moment, “What’s your favourite colour?” 

The corner of his mouth twitched, “I think green.” 

“What about your favourite movie?” added Waylon, finally feeling a genuine smiling for the first time that week.

“Um, I like _Army of Darkness_ I guess.” 

“Great,” Louise smiled, “Acceptable answers. You may continue to sit at the cool kid table.” 

Blake grinned and Jaime and Waylon chuckled. 

“What were the wrong answers?” he asked inquisitively. 

“There are none,” she began folding her empty juice box neatly, “Unless you said your favourite colour was something stupid like orange, _then_ we would have had a problem.” 

“Hey!” scoffed Waylon, “I like orange!” 

She sighed, “Of course you do, Way.” 

The blond faked offense and angrily ate his broccoli, but secretly he was thankful for his friends. Blake had been standoffish and tense since he arrived, but after their little interrogation he seemed to relax a bit. His chips and pop left untouched on the table beside him and his hands never left his pockets, but the straight line of his mouth was now upturned a bit and his posture looked a little better. When they finished and began cleaning up their food trays, Waylon found himself a bit anxious. He was not a people person like Louise, and he didn’t quite know how to talk to Blake when they got back to their room. 

Just as it had been before, the door was propped open with a door jam and now two nurses were pacing the halls and checking in on everybody. When they entered, Waylon immediately grabbed his book and settled against the bed. 

“Do you read?” he asked, watching Blake sit down on the edge of his bed.

“Not a lot.” He began to take off his gloves, “I’m more of a movie kind of guy.” 

“Me too,” informed Waylon, “But the only movies you’ll get in here are from before our time, and we have to go sit in the lounge with everybody else.” 

“That sounds-“ he popped open the bag of chips, “Less than ideal.”

“Jaime keeps asking me to watch with them, but…” he shook his head, “I’m starting to really like books now. You can read them if you’d like, just please don’t take my bookmarks out.” 

Blake nodded and began inspecting the rows of books on top of the desk, absentmindedly chewing the baked barbecue crisps. 

“You like cars?” 

“No, I like computers,” he caught sight of the magazine Blake was looking at, “The guy before us did.” 

He was glad he didn’t push further. It was obvious that whoever the _‘guy before us’_ was he either got better or didn’t make it. The larger man just inspected the different titles, looking over the spines and reading their names, not touching them or picking any up. 

“Can I ask,” Waylon laid his book in his lap, “What you do?” 

The man’s brow furrowed in confusion, making his glasses fall a few centimeters down his nose. 

“You know, like hobbies and stuff? Or a job?” 

He sat back on the bed, chewing on another chip languidly. 

“I worked for a news company with my wife,” he swallowed, “I was a cameraman.”

“You are a cameraman.” 

The confused look deepened, “What?” 

“Just because you’re in here doesn’t mean that you’re a different person. You’ll get out, things won’t be the same, but you’ll still be you,” he scratched his annoying, patchy facial hair, “You are a cameraman.” 

Oh god, Blake looked like he was about to cry. His eyes were glossy, and his cheeks suddenly darkened. He ducked his head, staring at his uncovered hands that were dry and cracking from over-washing them. 

“Thanks,” he mumbled, “I hope so.” He looked up suddenly, pointing at one of the books while he opened his pop in the other, “What’s the one without a title?”

Waylon followed his finger and saw he was referring to the journal that Doctor Darnielle had given him. 

“Oh, that’s-“ he reached over and pulled it out of the pile, “My journal.” 

“Oh, sorry, I won’t read it or anything-“ 

“It’s fine,” he clutched it to his leg, “I’ve never been a writer, but Doctor Darnielle says writing these letters about my day might help.” 

Blake sipped his cola and scrunched his face when the bubbles tickled his nose, wiping his upper lip after with his arm. 

“Who are you sending them to?” 

“Nobody,” his face fell, “Actually, my boyfriend, but he’s… he’s dead. So, nobody.” 

Blake immediately looked apologetic. He wanted to say sorry, Waylon could tell, but they both knew the word had been worn of it’s meaning already. 

“Honestly, I’m almost glad he’s not gonna read them,” he grinned to try and lighten the mood, “He was a journalist, so he always gave me shit for my writing, said it sounded like a junior high essay.” 

That made the younger man chuckle, and he let his head fall back against the wall. 

“I think…” he pulled off his glasses and set them on the desk between them, “I think I would write them to my wife. She’s… passed away too.” 

Waylon did not feel the urge to say he was sorry for his loss. Blake had heard it a thousand times before already. 

“It’s nice, but sometimes I get frustrated. I just want to be able to tell it to his face, not scribble it down with a magic marker and hide it away in my pillowcase,” he threw it to the end of his bed and fell back against the pillows, “This sucks, but I like that I have somebody to talk to now.” 

Blake was silent for a few moments, which made Waylon think he might have said something wrong, before he spoke again. 

“I know,” he sighed, “This fucking blows, but you seem like a cool guy.”

Waylon’s tousled head of sandy blond hair shot off his pillow, “So, shoot anything I’d have seen?” 

Blake was very nice. He had been so quiet, and he still was, but when he answered a question or gave his input to the situation, it was always very thought-out. When Blake spoke, he spoke with purpose, and he also had a vocabulary that would make a nun burst into flames. Jaime and Louise thought it was hilarious, and it definitely brightened Waylon’s day. 

Sometimes they would take walks together. Blake’s therapy sessions landed right after dinner, so their routine changed to accommodate each other. After lunch, they would talk down to Doctor Darnielle’s office. Blake would wait for Waylon to finish, then Waylon for him, and then they would walk down to the cafeteria to eat supper with their friends. Rarely did the younger man eat from the actual cafeteria line, which Waylon realized was probably the reason for his thin figure, but as the days turned into weeks, and as Blake became more comfortable in this setting, he looked much healthier. He would remove his sweater to sleep, and Waylon tried not to stare, but the man definitely didn’t have the body of a teenage boy anymore, and his shirts didn’t hang off him like they did when he first arrived. 

And as they grew closer, the realization that Blake was a very handsome man dawned on Waylon. He was not interested in anything right now, he could barely even think about his wife or late boyfriend without feeling sick and desperately guilty, but he did find himself admiring the man more and more as time went on. Blake was so undeniably male. Large chest and shoulders, a strong jaw, and facial hair that was growing slow, but still prominent due to lack of a face razor. The thought of meeting him years ago would have sent Waylon into a panic, he probably would have avoided the man completely so he didn’t have to confront any rising gay panic that he was so accustomed to not having to deal with. Now, he was glad this was no longer the case. He knew nothing would happen between them, and he didn’t want that, but spending time with Blake and getting to know him was a nice distraction from the daily drone of living in the hospital. 

Blake liked old horror movies, comic books, and obscure rock bands from the nineties. His parents passed away years ago, he went to catholic school, and that is where he met his wife. Blake’s wife’s name was Lynn Langermann. She was a reporter for their local news network, his co-worker, and the love of his life. He didn’t sugar coat it, he told Waylon that their marriage wasn’t what it used to be, but he still loved her, and he was trying his best until the very end. They loved the cold, and every winter on their anniversary they would go to a ski resort, but they wouldn’t ski since neither of them could. Waylon thought this was quite strange, but Blake explained that both of them grew up in Connecticut; the hot, Arizona air was not something that they were accustomed to, and they both agreed that they missed the snow. 

Something they never touched base on, however, was why they were both in here. That’s fine, Waylon did tell him that he would never ask unless he gave him the go ahead, but still he couldn’t help but become curious. Loud noises scared them both, they were touch-deprived but still hypersensitive and avoided attention at all costs, sometimes they both had nightmares and the other would wake up to screaming and orderlies rushing into their room to restrain their roommate. In the morning, said roommate would return, and things would go back to the way they were. 

Until one night when Waylon awoke to a loud noise from across the room. It was frighteningly dark, and if it weren’t for the limited vision granted by the dull moonlight of their window, he wouldn’t be able to see the looming figure at the end of their bed. 

“Blake?” he called out quietly, “Blake, what are you doing up?” 

There was no response, except the thick head of charcoal hair snapped back and suddenly slammed into the doorframe, making Waylon wince and jump from the bed. 

“Blake, what the fuck are you doing?” 

He was afraid to step any closer, fearing for what Blake might have planned. He had seemed to be doing well this week, but of course due to Markus, he knew that wasn’t always the case. 

The larger man did it again, and the noise shook Waylon to his core. He knew if something happened, he wouldn’t be able to hold the much, much heavier man back, but the noises should have alerted the nurses. Where were they? Why hadn’t they come in yet? He couldn’t just let it happen, so he reached out, and pulled Blake from the wall. 

“Blake,” he shook his shoulders gently, “Blake, what’s wrong?” 

He groaned and brought a hand up to grip his face, “Jessica?” 

“No, it’s Waylon,” there was a dark stain trickling down the man’s face but Waylon didn’t want to panic him further, so he held back from wiping it off. “We’re in our room, you’re fine.” 

“Waylon?” 

“Yeah, Blake,“ he moved a bit to get a better look, “Oh god, you’re bleeding. We should get a nurse-“

“No!” he cried, “No, no, please, Waylon, I-“ he started to sob quietly, leaning back against the wall, “Please don’t leave.” 

Waylon bit his lip as Blake’s sobs became quieter and quieter, “Can I hug you?” 

Blake seemed to nod, and when Waylon moved closer and pulled him against his chest he didn’t fight it, so the smaller man pulled him even closer, and eventually they were leant against the far wall together, Blake’s head in the crook of his shoulder, probably staining Waylon’s nightshirt with blood, but he could care less. He let the man cry, and he soaked up the attention that he had been craving for so long, because who knew when he would get it next? 

They sat quietly until the morning when one of the nurses walked in, both of them asleep and still clutching each other. She woke them, and called in for a few other orderlies to assist. Blake was taken away for an assessment, and Waylon followed as close behind as he could. He thought about what happened, what he knew about Blake, and none of it added up. He had never talked about a Jessica before, and he had never, in all the time he had been admitted, tried to hurt himself. It was out of character, and had Waylon worried sick. 

Finally, Blake came out of the office, a bruised nose, cheek, and black eye adorning his face, and a bandage on his forehead. 

“They said I was sleep walking because of my PTSD,” he explained in a quiet voice, “Thanks for staying with me.” 

“No problem,” Waylon quickly reassured him, “Are you hungry?” 

He shook his head, but followed Waylon to the cafeteria anyway. If Waylon picked up a Rice Krispy square and a bag of popcorn for later, he didn’t make a comment, but he didn’t try to take it from the desk either when they went back to their room later either. 

Waylon wasn’t very hungry either, so he ate some of his own popcorn as he read his book for the second time. He really enjoyed it, but also there were few books he hadn’t read at the facility. 

“I’m supposed to go to group therapy today,” he said with a handful of buttery cornels, “I don’t really want you to go to the office alone though.” 

“I’ll be fine,” Blake sighed, “I’m over it, my head just hurts.” 

Waylon tried to lay off, but he couldn’t overcome the uneasy feeling in his gut. 

“I really don’t feel good about leaving you by yourself,” he rolled over to face the adjacent man, “Maybe see if Doctor Darnielle can take you early?” 

“Really Waylon, you sound like my fucking wife.” Blake threw a pillow at him and he caught it, but didn’t look amused, “Try to relax at group, that’s what it’s for.” 

Waylon threw the pillow back and went limp against the bed again with a loud huff, “I’ll try, but I’m getting out of there as soon as possible, okay?” 

There was no reply, and both of them sat in silence until it was time for them to go to therapy. Group was on the other side of the ward and took a while for Waylon to walk there. On his way, he noticed that his limp was a bit worse today. It was cold, he chalked it down to that, but still he could hear Doctor Darnielle’s comment about it being psychosomatic. If there was any day for his stress to make it worse, it would definitely be today. 

Group was in a common area, a bunch of people he recognized sat in a circle made of grey, plastic chairs. He recognized Jaime immediately, who in turn invited him to sit beside him. 

Doctor Yusuf, who was running it along with some volunteers, explained that the purpose was to share their thoughts in feelings with a group that they felt comfortable in. She said if he didn’t feel like sharing, he could pass, and if he felt the need to say something he could wait his turn. She also explained to watch the way he said things, and that if he needed to get something out that was potentially triggering, he had to warn everybody beforehand. 

It seemed simple enough. He didn’t think he would share today, but it would be interesting to hear from new people. 

“My name is Cassidy,” the woman beside Waylon began, “I’m here for an ED and chronic depression. I like fantasy football and the colour blue.” 

They moved down the line. Everybody stated why they were here, and something about themselves. Few passed, but they always said their name, and it was nice to hear them speak so casually. Finally, it came down to Jaime. 

“The name’s Jaime,” it sounded rehearsed, “they say I’m a paranoid schizophrenic with bipolar depression, but I think I’m the next Pablo Picasso.” 

A small tumult of chuckles went around the room, but Jaime’s smile never fell. Waylon’s did though, and he felt his chest tighten with an anxiety that had left him after graduating high school resurface. 

“Um… I’m Waylon,” he stared at his hands as he spoke, “and I’m here for post traumatic stress and suicidal ideations,” he forced a smile, “I’m a software engineer.” 

“Nice to meet you, Waylon,” said Doctor Yusuf, “Glad you could join us today.” 

Again, they went around the circle and discussed their own individual issues. Sometimes people would give their two cents, sometimes advice that helped them cope with similar problems, other times the person just ranted and ranted until they couldn’t breath anymore, and they moved onto the next person. 

“The hallucinations are getting worse,” said Jaime when it came to his turn, “After Markus passed away, I see them more and more.” 

Waylon had never heard Jaime really talk about his afflictions before. He knew it used to be violent. It used to bully him, belittle him, make his life a living hell, but he was learning to cope with it. He had no idea that things had taken a turn for the worse after Markus died. 

“Sorry to hear that, Jaime,” the doctor responded, “Have you talked to your doctors?” 

“Yup,” he said, popping the ‘p’, “It’s nothing medication can fix, I’m just stressed. When I’m sad, I see-“ he hesitated, “I see this… thing. It’s like water, but black. It’s everywhere, in the ceiling cracks, on the floor, in my pillow, and the more upset I am, the closer it gets to touching me.” 

The entire room looked a bit unnerved. 

“Has the black water ever touched you?” 

“Once,” his face betrayed no emotions, “Now I’m here.” 

Waylon began to wonder whether Markus normally occupied the seat that he had taken beside Jaime. 

“Now Waylon, would you like to share your thoughts today?” 

He shook his head, and they immediately moved onto the next person, relieving Waylon of his stress. 

That night when he rushed back to their room, Blake had his gloves on, and was sitting upright in bed, reading a book. 

“How’d it go?” he said, not looking up. 

“Well, I think,” he let himself fall onto his stomach on his own mattress, “I didn’t talk, but it was kind of nice.” 

Blake squinted as he looked down on his book, looking frustrated. It was then that Waylon realized he didn’t have his glasses on. 

“Where are your glasses?” 

He pointed to the desk. “They hurt my face.” 

“Do you want me to read it to you?” 

Blake turned to him finally, and he could see that the swelling in his eye had gone down. 

“Sure, if you want.” 

He set the book on the desk for Waylon to take, but after the smaller man picked it up, he motioned to the spot beside him. 

Blake looked hesitant, “When was the last time you washed your sheets?”

“Goddamn it, Blake, get your ass over here.” 

The younger man did as he was told, moving to the other side of the room so he could sit beside his roommate. Waylon was not a very interesting reader. He didn’t do silly voices, or animate his movements, but the past few weeks of surfing through novels incessantly made his readings smooth. Within a few minutes, he could feel Blake’s weight and warmth against his shoulder. An hour later, the man began to snore, and was practically across Waylon’s lap. He chuckled, letting him down the rest of the way and burying a hand in his unruly mess of black curls. His head rest on the wall behind him, and for the first time in months, he felt at peace with the company of another person. Waylon knew that later that day he would have to wake Blake up, make him lay in his own bed before the nurses came in and saw them being affectionate, but he let himself enjoy the moment while it lasted. 

Relaxation is a luxury few can afford in this place, and it hit him hard at his therapy session the next day when Doctor Darnielle set a small pamphlet of paperwork in front of him. 

“I want to take you somewhere next Saturday.” 

The words made Waylon pause in his reading, and he looked up at her with a bewildered expression. 

“Aren’t you getting cabin fever in that little room with Blake?” 

“Yeah,” he let the papers fall to his lap, “But I’m not supposed to leave yet.” 

“Without supervision,” she corrected, “But you’ve been making great progress lately, Waylon, and I think it’s almost time to think about your final steps here. You know your letters to Miles?” 

His addled expression worsened. 

“You have been writing those, correct?” 

“Yes,” he shook his head, “Yeah, but what does that have to do with anything?” 

“I think we should bring them to him.” 

Waylon stayed completely still and quiet. 

“I think they’ve been good for you, but it’s time to let go, and what better way of letting go then to send them to him? Believe me, I know it sounds strange, and it is but…” she sighed, “Holding them is like holding a piece of him, and I think it may be holding you back a bit. You promised you knew he would never read them, but I fear that they’re now doing more harm then good.” 

It sounded very strange. _Really_ strange. Experimentally so. 

“So… where do you want me to go?” 

“His family is having a memorial service for him on Wednesday. I would have told you sooner, but I just found out yesterday,” she gave him a pitiful smile, “I thought maybe we could visit after and put them with his gravestone.” 

He chewed his nail nervously, “Can I think about it?” 

“Of course, but please consider it seriously.” 

So he did. He thought about his letters as he left the room, earning a worrisome look from Blake who took his spot, and he thought about it the whole way back to their room, throughout dinner, and afterwards. It must have been obvious that he wasn’t reading his book, because suddenly Blake’s shut with a resounding _smack_ and he turned to face Waylon on the bed beside him.

“I’m sorry, I know I normally don’t pry, but what the fuck did she say to you that’s got you so spacey?” 

He set his book down on his pillow and criss-crossed his legs, grabbing his sock-clad feet like a chastised child. “She says she wants to… take me somewhere.” 

Blake set his book down as well and waited for him to continue. 

“She wants me to take those letters to Miles. Apparently his family is having a memorial service for him tomorrow, so she wants me to bring my letters and… leave them there, I guess.” 

“Aw Way,” Blake wrapped an arm around his shoulders, “That really sucks. Are you gonna go to the service?” 

He shook his head, “I couldn’t face his family. They didn’t…” he looked down at his hands, “They didn’t know about us. They didn’t… approve of him.” 

“I don’t understand how people can have their head so far up their asses sometimes,” he shook his head, “How does it get there, you know? Who put it there?” 

Waylon chuckled and sunk into his warmth, letting the soft, worn material of Blake’s hoodie ground him. 

“She says that maybe giving him the letters will help me let go,” he motioned to his face, “But look at me! I have let go, I don’t even cry about it anymore.” 

“Waylon,” Blake’s face softened, “Sometimes you do. Sometimes you cry in your sleep, did you not know that?” 

Waylon shook his head. 

“What do you think you’ll do?” 

“Write one more, I guess,” he shrugs, “Get it all out.” 

Blake stayed quiet, rubbing soft circles in Waylon’s shoulder while he thought further about it. Then, Waylon broke into tears. 

“Maybe I haven’t let go.” He sniffed, rubbing at his eyes, “God, I fucking miss him, Blake.” 

“I know.” 

“A-And those letters were the only thing that I had-“ 

“I know, Waylon.” 

“His family… they’ll never let me have anything of his. He had so many photos of us… so many things we bought together, I’ll never get them back.”

“Waylon,” Blake gripped him a bit tighter, “I think it’s time to let go.” 

Waylon rubbed his nose and nodded. He knew you never fully recover from these things, but with those letters in hand he wasn’t quite trying his best. 

“Do you think she’ll let you come with me?” 

Blake paused, “I don’t know.” 

“Would you like to?” 

Again, Blake thought before answering, “I think so.” 

“You don’t have to, I just-“ he inhaled deeply to even his breathing out, “I just don’t want to be there alone.” He was quiet, just letting Blake hold him until he thought of another thing, “She was just talking about seeing Lisa last week.” 

“Your wife?” 

He nodded, “Yeah, I just think… I’ve put things off for so long, now they’re all happening at once.” 

Gloved fingers worked through his tresses and onto his scalp, “Then maybe you should talk to Lisa before you write your last letter, so Miles knows you told her.” 

Waylon sighed, “That’s a good idea.” 

“I’m full of good ideas.” 

The blond shoved him slightly and picked his book back up, not wanting to talk about it further. He had a lot on his mind, and if he could just get a break for two minutes, that would be enough, and he would be able to get his ducks in a row. 

He told Doctor Darnielle about his talk with Blake and what they had discussed. She agreed this was a good idea, and said she would get back to him with a date when she could. It wasn’t until the next day when she told him Friday at three o’ clock that it really hit him. His limp slowly increased in the next oncoming days, even Louise made a comment about it, and he explained to them that Lisa was visiting, and he was planning on telling her about these past few months. 

He was not ready. 

The last few minutes of waiting for Lisa to show up were the longest of his life. His pulse raced, and his skin was clammy, but nothing compared to the way his stomach sunk to the floor when she walked in, and her face immediately fell when she saw him. 

“Waylon,” she moved forward like she was hesitant to touch him, “Can… Can I-“ 

He nodded, and she immediately gripped his shoulder and pulled her in. It was simultaneously the worst and best feeling in the world, but even as a few tears slipped as he buried his face in her thick, coiled hair, he kept his composure. 

“You’re so skinny…” she commented, “What have they been feeding you, baby?”

Waylon laughed and pulled her to a small couch and table set that was in eyesight of the orderlies. Despite their separation, she continued to touch him. A hand on his arm, fiddling with his overgrown hair, or fixing the way his shirt hung off one shoulder. 

“So tell me what you’ve been up to!” he smiled, “How are your parents? How is work?” 

“Work is… long,” she sighed, “very, very boring. Nothing but small car accidents and stolen refrigerators.” 

“That’s a good sign,” Waylon tried a smile, “That means less crime.” 

“Less crime, more like more lawyers,” she raised a hand to her face, “I swear, Leadville’s population doubled after you left. As for my parents,” she gestured to the room around them, “They still don’t understand what’s happening.” 

“Honestly, I don’t think any of us do,” he motioned to his face, “I haven’t shaved in weeks, Lisa, pigs are flying.” 

She giggled and tightened her grip on his sleeve, “Glad to know you haven’t lost your sense of humour. Have you been doing well? They wouldn’t tell me much, just kept saying I wasn’t allowed to see you.” 

“Yeah, it was a tough transition, they just didn’t know if it was safe for me to see you but…” he shut his eyes tight, “I have something I want to tell you.” 

“Anything, baby,” she looked like she was fighting back concern. 

“Well, I’m sure by now you know about… about Miles,” he kept his eyes shut, “and about how I left in his Jeep.” 

“Did he come to get you?” 

“Yeah, they think so…” he opened them slightly, forcing himself to look Lisa in the eye, “He came to get me because… because…” 

She looked frustrating, her already dwindling patience reaching its breaking point. 

“Because we loved each other!” he sputtered all in one breath. 

She looked completely perplexed, one hand coming to rest on her hip, “Of course, you’re best friends-“ 

“No, Lisa,” he rubbed his face in his palms, “We _loved_ each other.” 

“Oh…” she whispered, but her brain didn’t seem to be catching on, “Waylon I don’t see what this has to do with-“ 

“Lisa,” he ground his teeth tight, “I was cheating on you.” 

Complete silence. 

“With Miles. I have been for years.” 

The woman’s back straightened, feigning composure although her eyes suddenly became glossy and wet. 

“Can I talk with your doctor? I don’t think you’re in your right mind to be telling me things like this.” 

“Oh come on, Lis,” he groaned, “You have to believe me, why would I lie about this?” 

She grabbed his shoulders and forced him to look her in the eye. 

“Tell me you loved me.” 

Her grip tightened. 

“Tell me it wasn’t all for nothing.” 

“It wasn’t!” he said with passion, “Of course I love you! I still do, I just-“ 

“You could have told me, you know,” she shook her head, “You could tell me anything. If you wanted to explore, you should have-“ 

“Lisa,” he lowered his voice, “It wasn’t exploring. I… I knew. I’ve known for a long time.” 

“Christ Waylon,” she buried her head in her hands and began weeping, “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me sooner.” 

“Because I didn’t admit it to myself until-“ 

“You should have told me! Right away, you should have told me, I would have understood, I would have helped you!” 

He reached out to touch her shoulder but she flinched away. 

“I-I know how your parents are! I know they were upset about you marrying a black woman, and I’ve heard the way they talk about gay people b-but you could have just-“ tears fell from her chin and onto her lap but she made no move to wipe them, “But you could have at least told me. Did you think I would be mad?” 

Suddenly, Waylon was crying too. “No!” he sobbed, “No, Lisa, I knew you would be nothing but understanding, but I panicked, and I couldn’t make you upset like-“ he rubbed his tear-stained cheek, “You know what? There is no excuse, I’m sorry.” 

Lisa sniffed and stared down at her hands, soft and nails polished with a bright dandelion yellow. 

“How long exactly?” 

He thought back carefully, “I think… I think it was just after Miles’ twenty-third birthday, so four years.” 

A flash of anger crossed her face, but it didn’t last. “I still love you, but I am more than a little upset. You’ve been seeing him for fours years, Waylon? That’s almost as long as you’ve been friends!” 

“I know,” he shook his head and breathed deeply, “I know, and I should have told you as soon as it happened, but I was just… so scared. I had lived with this for so long, a-and the thought of my parents finding out,” he sighed, “I’m so selfish. His parents disowned him, you know? He was just a kid when we met, and he had already been through so much. He didn’t deserve to wait around for an old man like me to stop being such a coward.” 

“You sound like you’re sixty, Way.” She reached out and cupped the side of his face with a sad smile, and he leaned into the pressure. 

“I feel like I’m sixty,” he whispered, “and I’m sorry, because you didn’t deserve this. I’m sorry because he should be here with me, and we should be having this conversation together.” 

She nodded and kissed his forehead. Using the pads of her thumbs, she wiped the tears from under his eyes, and forced another wet smile. 

“Better late than never, I guess.” 

“God,” he groaned, “What did I do to deserve you?”  


Lisa chuckled, but she stood, holding his hand as she did so. 

“I won’t tell anybody,” she promised, “but I want what’s best for us, I hope you know.” 

“I know.” 

“And I think what’s best is if we don’t see each other after this is all over with. As a couple, that is.” 

He stood and nodded, following her as she left. Before one of the orderlies saw her out, she leaned in and kissed his cheek, eyes hooded and sombre, but wearing a smile nonetheless. He felt like he should say sorry, apologize a thousand times over, but they had heard it so many times, neither needed to hear it again.

“I love you,” he whispered, “Please come back soon.” 

“I will,” she began walking away, “I love you too.” 

That night he made it back to his and Blake’s shared room just after dinner. He knew Pei had offered to spend some time with him, they probably hung out in the cafeteria with the others, so this didn’t worry him. Until some time went by, and Blake didn’t show up. Hours passed, Blake never came back, and there was only a little while left until it was time for lights out. 

Waylon slipped on his shoes and walked outside, trying to locate a nurse, when suddenly Louise was running in his direction.

“Waylon!” she called whilst catching up to him, “Don’t – Don’t go in the cafeteria.” 

“Why not?” 

“He’s not there,” she lurched over her knees trying to catch her breath, “They saw him not eat-eating and he-“ she stood straight with a loud breath, “They tried to force him.” 

“What?” suddenly the room was a million degrees warmer, “Where is he?” 

“He’s fine,” she reassured him, “It just freaked him out, do you wanna go see if we can visit?” 

Waylon nodded, urging her on hastily. She led him to the other side of the room ward, past the female area, and over by the single rooms. Jaime was arguing with one of the orderlies, Pei on a stool behind him. It looked to be getting quite heated, the orderly’s hands raised in submission. 

“Look, I can’t let you in there-“ 

“No, you listen, _bruja,_ you tried to force feed him and now he’s locked up because you triggered a PTSD attack-“ he locked eyes with Louise and Waylon over her shoulder, “Christ, thank god you’re okay – this is his roommate!” He motioned to Waylon, “He’s probably been scared shitless, did you even think to tell him?” 

“Mister Banderas, please keep your voice down,” she sighed, pulling her hair back from her face. “You’re Waylon?” she asked the blond as he approached. 

“Yeah, is he okay?” 

“Look, I don’t know what these three have been telling you, but he’s really perfectly fine-“ 

“Then why is he in solitary?” Louise cut in, “Why have you locked him up like he’s a prisoner-“ 

“Please, I don’t know anything other than I’m supposed to keep him in there.” 

Waylon stepped forward, “Can I just talk to him? He’s probably really worried.” 

The nurse tapped her foot, crossing her arms across her chest. She seemed to be sizing him up, checking to see if she could let the rules bend a bit so the four of them would lay off. 

“Fine,” she unlocked the door, “Five minutes.” 

Immediately as he walked in, the room was filled with quiet sobs that were muffled. There were no books, no drawers, nothing to decorate the room at all, just a bed and a desk. Blake sat on the far side of the room, curled in on himself. 

“Blake, it’s Waylon.” 

The younger man’s face shot up from his knees. His cheeks were wet and blotchy, his glasses had a crack in one lens, and as soon as he caught sight of Waylon he was reaching up to him like a fussy toddler. So Waylon obliged, and dropped to his knees to embrace the man. 

“Oh god Blake, what’d they do?” 

“They know,” the fingers in the shoulder’s of Waylon’s sweater tightened, “They know I-I haven’t been eating the cafeteria food.” 

“Has Doctor Darnielle come to see you?” he pet the man’s head in an attempt to relax him. 

“N-No she went – she went home for the night.” 

Waylon could tell he was still overwrought from the whole experience. His voice was hoarse like he had been yelling or crying for a long time, and it was breaking as he forced the words between the tears. It was tough to see, and it was even tougher when he realized that he had no power of the situation. They were at the mercy of the hospital staff, whether they knew what to do or not. 

Waylon didn’t make a move to get up, but he turned back to the door, Blake still in his arms. 

“When can I take him back to our room?” 

The nurse popped her head in with a frown, “I’m sorry, you can’t, not until I get the go ahead from his primary doctor.” 

“Well can you get her on the phone and tell her I need to speak with her?” 

The nurse put her hands on her hips defensively and shot him an acrimonious glare, “No, you’ll just have to wait for her to come into work tomorrow,” she swung her keys on a finger, “Times up, get back to your room.” 

Suddenly large hands tightened around him in an attempt to keep him still. 

“I can’t just leave him here,” the blond countered, “You see how upset he is.” 

The woman gave an exasperated sigh before raising her hands in the air, “You know what? I’m done. You’re all ungrateful, and I’ve had enough fighting for one day,” she stuck a jam under the heavy metal door, “You can stay here, but I’m watching you, so don’t try anything.” 

With that, she was gone, and Waylon relaxed against the wall so Blake could lean on him fully. Through the tears and body-wrenching weeping, Blake explained that they saw him without a tray that day and a nurse asked him if he was sick. He explained that he wasn’t, but he usually eats his own food from the snack table in his room, but he eats with his friends. The nurses became irate, telling him he wasn’t getting enough nutrients and that he was going to make himself sick. Some of the male orderlies had to be called in, because he was becoming increasingly distraught at the notion of having to eat the regular food from behind the dirty glass barrier. 

“But you’re healthy now, you’ve gained weight since you got here.” 

“I know!” he huffed under his breath, “They just – they just don’t care, and now they’re going to be watching me.” 

“We’ll talk with Doctor Darnielle tomorrow,” he let his head rest against the younger man’s, “We’ll sort this out.” 

One of Blake’s hands found it’s way onto Waylon’s lap, and he began fiddling with the drawstrings of his hoodie. 

“How’d it go with Lisa?” 

“Oh,” he had completely forgotten, “It went… okay, I guess. Better than expected.” 

“You told her everything?” 

“Yeah… she understood, but obviously she’s mad.” 

“She won’t be mad for long,” Blake smiled up at him through wet eyelashes, “Nobody can ever stay mad at you.” 

“Oh, but she can, she’s a lawyer, they’re pretty stubborn,” he argued, “But I guess, I wouldn’t forgive myself either.” 

“You have to,” said Blake as he sat up a little straighter, “We’re human, and we make mistakes, you have to forgive yourself at one point.” 

Waylon agreed verbally, but mentally he argued with Blake. He didn’t think he could ever forgive himself. All that he had done was get Miles killed and cheat on his wife, and that wasn’t forgivable. On top of that, the last four years of Miles’ life was spent with a married man who couldn’t even break up with his life but _still_ told Miles he loved him, and that must have hurt. If Waylon were religious, he might feel even worse; the thought of Miles looking down on him in the afterlife and seeing him so sorry for himself was a nightmare. 

Eventually Waylon managed to get Blake up and onto the bed, both of them curling up together on top of the blankets. The weather was starting to get colder, but they both had their sweaters, and Blake was like a human furnace against him. Waylon didn’t think either of them fell asleep at any point, but the sun began to rise eventually, and Doctor Darnielle rushed into the room. 

“Boys, I’m so, so sorry!” she cursed under her breath, “They just told me. How are you doing, Blake?” 

“Had worse,” he shot her a forced smile that earned him a less than amused look. 

“Really, that was just… so unprofessional of them,” she sat on the edge of the bed, “And they didn’t even think to call me? I’m furious. I’d be furious if I were you too. Thanks for sticking it out with him, Waylon.” 

“No problem,” Waylon began getting up, “Are we allowed to leave?” 

“Yes, if you’re feeling better you can go back to your room. I’ll send your regular nurse over with your meds, and I’ll have a talk with the cafeteria staff.” 

They did as they were told, but Blake did not go back to the cafeteria. Instead, Waylon would bring him his meals as he usually did, and they snacked in their room together. That night Blake slept deeply, but eventually he started to sleepwalk again, making Waylon get up in the middle of the night, turn him around, and slip him back into bed. 

“Jessica…” he murmured into his pillow. 

“No Blake,” he whispered as he carded through his hair, “It’s Waylon.” 

“Jess… I’m sorry… I’m sorry…” his face contorted like he was going to cry, but Waylon quickly shushed him. 

“Jessica is fine, don’t worry. You’re safe, Blake.” 

“Val has Lynn…” 

At the sound of Blake’s wife’s voice, Waylon’s ears perked. 

“Nobody has anybody, Blake, you’re alright.” 

“They’re gonna… fuck-“ a few tears slipped down his cheeks, but the talking stopped after that. Eventually Waylon slipped back under his covers, and he was so, so exhausted, but his worry for Blake hurting himself again kept his eyes open.

Soon, it was time for group again, and he let Jaime drag him along rather reluctantly. His limp had worsened, just like it had last time, only this time he was also yawning and dragging his feet to boot. Just as they had before, Doctor Yusuf went over the rules, took everybody’s name in the attendance, and they began discussing their weeks. 

“Waylon, would you like to share this week?” 

The blond was startled from his dissociative state, and when he turned to look at Jaime, the man ushered him to share. 

“S-Sure, I guess…” he cleared his throat, “Um… this week has been a bit… up and down, I guess. I saw my wife for the first time in months but… we’re breaking up.” 

“Sorry to hear that, Waylon,” Doctor Yusuf commented, earning a collective ‘sorry’ from the rest of the group. 

“It’s okay, it’s been a long time coming, a-and it was mutual.” He wrung his hands in his lap nervously, “I told her about something that I should have told her a long time ago, and she took it very well, she’s very good to me and I love her a lot,” he smiled at the ground, “Then my friend had a bit of a scare, which was tough and I think set him back a little bit.” 

He knew most of them were in that room when it happened, so he didn’t need to say the name Blake for them to know whom he was referring to. 

“But I’m doing well, and I think I’m going to get out of here soon.” 

“We’ll miss you, but I’m glad you’re confident.” 

“Yeah, I’ve been um…” he made a writing motion with his hands, “Writing these letters to my boyfriend, who passed away a few months ago. My doctor says that… maybe if I bring these to him, I can let go.” 

He could tell a few people looked taken aback of his mention of both a wife and a boyfriend, but nobody commented. They never did. It was always the doctors that had an obvious reaction. 

“I haven’t thought about the incident that brought me here as much. I know it’s still affecting me, but not like his loss has. So I think… once I do that, I’ll be pretty much done.” 

Jaime high-fived him proudly, and everybody congratulated him on sharing. It felt nice, to be praised for something so mundane, but he hadn’t been praised quite like this in a very, very long time. His parents had always been strict, needing the best grades, the best attitude, and the best son. But he was a human and he made mistakes, but here those mistakes were considered natural, not flaws of character. 

Blake had begun sleeping in his bed with him. Waylon felt honoured that the man considered him safe enough to sleep beside, and it definitely helped him some, but as the days ticked down to Saturday, his limp became increasingly apparent, and the notebook glared at him, almost threateningly. One last letter was all he needed, but he couldn’t quite force it. 

_”Dear Miles,”_ he started Friday evening before lights out. 

_”Sorry I haven’t written for a while. Things have been hectic, and it’s almost forcing me to think about you less and less. I know you’re gone, and I have to move on, but that doesn’t mean I’m very happy about it. Regardless, this will be my last entry, so I’ll try to tell you as much as I can. Neither of us have ever been particularly religious people, but I’m glad that even though they haven’t found your body, they still gave you an honourable ceremony. I couldn’t go, but I like to think you saw, and that you know I would’ve been there if I could have.”_

_”I finally met my roommate. His name is Blake, and you guys would get along so well. Too well. You’d probably trade me in for him if he weren’t straight. You both swear like sailors and like those dumb, corny horror movies. He even listens to the Violent Femmes. I do like the Violent Femmes, not that I’d ever admit it to either of you, but I just thought that was kind of funny. We’ve been taking care of each other, and he’s taught me a lot. In the time that we’ve been rooming together, I’ve made more progress then ever. He’s a smart guy, only twenty-nine, but mature beyond his years. I like to think that when both of us are out there in the world, we’ll find each other again, and we’ll be friends. Friends are really important, and I’ve taken that for granted.”_

_”I saw Lisa too. She hasn’t changed at all; still just as beautiful as the day I met her. I told her. About us, I mean, and she took it way better than I would have. I think she just loves us both so much, and she’s always been an empathetic person. Still, I just wish I could have told her sooner, so I didn’t waste all those years in the closet and by default forced you back in too. You deserved to hold somebody’s hand and show off your relationship in public like you always wanted, even though you are much, much more attractive than I’ll ever be. I’m still convinced you just kept me around to make yourself look good, but I can’t say I mind.”_

_”I don’t think about the mountain as much anymore. It still runs my life, I know every decision I make or will make in the future will be influenced by Mount Massive in some way, but I just don’t think about it. Sometimes I dream about it, but in my dreams I’m not being chased or mutilated anymore, I’m unlocking doors and I’m thanking people, and sometimes you’re there too. I know it’s you, but I can’t see your face. It’s covered by this fog, but I can tell that it’s definitely you. You and that ugly jacket you refuse to take off. Your legs too. It’s weird, you have nice shoulders and I always told you that, but your legs are really nice too. I think I’m just absolutely infatuated, this must be what that feels like.”_

_”I’m done with apologies and farewells. By now, both have lost their magic, and they’ll do nothing to fix what I’ve started. Blake was the one who taught me that. I’m human, and I may never forgive myself completely, but I can’t let that hold me back from living my life. We all make mistakes, and I never meant to hurt anybody. I’ll try and be better from now on. For you, for Lisa, for Blake, and for myself. Yeah, I’m sorry, but all I can do is try to stop making these mistakes again.”_

_“Doctor Darnielle is confident I’ll be let out soon. She thinks I’ve made great progress, and with a bit more group therapy, and some excursions to the outside world, she can assess how I’ll do on my own. This is both terrifying and also exciting. So, by this time tomorrow you will have received this message, in a way, and I’ll be free from these letters. I don’t want to stop sending them, I like feeling like I’m talking to you, but it’s the only way I’ll get over myself.”_

_”So this is me, saying goodbye, and I’ll miss you for as long as I live. I know things won’t get better, but they’ll get easier, and that’s all I can say for now. Still, I can’t help but think of what things could have been. You loved Seattle, maybe we could have lived there, in an apartment overlooking the ocean. Or maybe we would just kind of drift for a while. We’re both so young, I know you weren’t really looking to settle anytime soon, but the thought is still nice. You didn’t want to get married, but I did. That’s all I want, especially now. You were always bored with the mundane, but I’ve come to realize that’s all I wanted. I want to go grocery shopping with you, own a dog, paint our fence, get married in a church for christ’s sake, because that’s what normal people do. Now that I can’t do that, it hurts, but maybe one day I’ll try and have something similar.”_

_”You don’t have to forgive me, but I like to think that you would be proud.”_

_”Until next time,”_

_”Love, Waylon.”_

As he wrote the final date down, a tear escaped the confines of his eyelid, and Blake pulled him into a hug, letting him bawl his eyes out for the first time in a long time. It was cathartic, and despite him being devastated, it felt good. It was like he had let everything he was holding in out all at once, but now he was empty. Having Blake hold him felt good, and he was glad to have him there.


	5. Chapter 5

The next day he yawned a good morning to Blake, took his meds and ate his breakfast, then made his way down the hall. Both him and the doctors decided it was best Blake hadn’t come after the rough week he had, so Doctor Darnielle signed Waylon out alone, and they made their way to her car. It was a beaten eggplant Oldsmobile, and it suited her. The inside was impeccable, despite the rough exterior, and he almost felt bad letting his dirty sneakers touch the pristine grey carpet. 

There wasn’t much talking on the way to the cemetery. Quiet indie music played from the speakers, and the heater rattled a bit, but otherwise it was completely quiet. Both felt it was fitting, and not once did Waylon feel awkward. 

“Do you want me to wait in the car?” she asked as they arrived, “I can see it from here, so if you want some privacy, that’s fine.” 

He nodded and stepped out silently, letters that had been neatly packed into a dark blue envelope in hand. It hadn’t been sealed, but he signed Miles’ name on the back and clutched it tight to his chest as he made his way towards the newest headstone. 

_Miles Upshur_  
_Loving son, brother, and friend._  
_1986-2013_

Waylon knelt down in front of it. Obviously there was no body found, so the dirt was still covered in dewy, well-kempt grass, but he didn’t sit. He didn’t think he would need long. 

“I have something for you,” he started, tracing the engraved letters on the granite marker. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be here for the ceremony, but I wasn’t invited.” 

He licked the seal and closed the letter in one hand. 

“These are all the things I wish I could have said. It seems stupid, but it helped. And I know, you’ll never actually see them, but that almost makes me happy,” he smirked as the biting wind bit at his dampening cheeks, “They’re so bad, Miles, I’m so terrible at writing.” 

He used his scarf to wipe at his eyes, but he laughed. When he finished, he set the letters down so they leant against all the dying flowers and presents that had been left on the grave. He hoped that nobody stopped by and moved it, he hoped it just wasted away untouched. 

“I love you,” the blond let his head rest against the stone, “I hope you’re out there somewhere with a beer and a typewriter.” 

He patted the stone before standing, sniffing and trying to wipe away any signs that he had been crying. It dawned on him then that he had been outside the walls of the hospital, and was yet to have a panic attack. He supposed that he had been too distracted to think about, but even now that he was letting it sink in, it didn’t really matter. 

He pulled his hat down a little lower and moved his glasses back up his face. It was getting colder and colder so fast, but he was glad for the added comfort of layers. He made his way back to the car and got in, warming his bare hands over the heating vents. 

“All ready? Do you feel a bit better?” 

He nodded, “I feel ten pounds lighter.” 

She did not comment on his red cheeks or watery eyes, she just put the car into gear and began making her way back to the hospital. 

It was around dinnertime. Blake was surprisingly not in their room when he returned, which worried him a bit, but when he found his way to the cafeteria he saw his friends all huddled around their usual table, Blake included. 

“Hey,” he greeted, walking over. 

“Hey you,” Blake smiled and shifted over, “Saved you a seat.” 

When he moved enough and Waylon slipped in beside him and Pei, a tray of food was pushed in front of him. 

“How are you?” Louise asked, looking at him expectantly. 

“I’m good.” 

“And-“ started Jaime, sketchbook for once nowhere in sight, “How was Miles?” 

“Good,” Waylon smiled into his food, “We’re good.” 

Blake patted his shoulder and they began their conversation again. Pei was telling one of her animated stories while Louise and Jaime listened intently, groaning and enthusiastically reacting at all the fun parts. Waylon chuckled along with their antics, but what caught most of his attention was the fact that Blake had a bottle of pop and was taking absentminded sips from it, not bothering to wipe the top or take it back to his room before he opened it. 

The moment was surreal. 

Not much happened the rest of the week. Incidents were at a minimum, everybody’s spirits were unusually high, and he began feeling more and more like himself again. Even his limp was practically nonexistent, a sure sign that there was much less stress in his life. 

That week at group therapy, Emmet, a regular, decided to share his story of why he had been admitted. He lived with his aunt and uncle his whole life, and both were quite abusive. He said he had to earn his keep around the house from the time he was old enough to get a job, but it was never good enough. Now that they were older, he was expected to take care of them, even though he was old enough to legally live by himself. He tried to leave, but they guilt tripped him, manipulated him into staying because they felt like he owed them something. 

He couldn’t take it. Emmet took his uncles old Model T and drove to the nearest bridge. Apparently he was on the news, and multiple people rushed to the scene to save him. Eventually, he was coaxed from the edge, but he had made multiple attempts since. His aunt passed away a week prior, he was trying to get better. 

Finally, it came to Waylon’s turn. Sharing last time felt good, and he was on a roll, so he decided to throw all his cards on the table and just get it over with. 

“I’m here because I worked for a company that was into illegal activities,” he started, “When I tried to expose them, they had me admitted to their asylum.” He went into small details about the incident, knowing anybody here could be easily triggered if he said too much. He explained that a riot had helped him escape, and that many did not make it out. 

“I had never experienced anything like that before,” he said finally, “We’re not supposed to. I guess it was just too much for me to handle. Things still bother me sometimes. I don’t… the word ‘Darling’ sometimes sets me off. Locked doors, the dark, men in uniforms are usually what does it, but I’ve gotten to the point where I can hear these things, and yeah they scare me, but I’m not there anymore.” 

After group, Jaime slapped him on the back and congratulated him yet again. He seemed ecstatic for Waylon, and the man felt the same. He was proud of all of them, for how far they had come, and for how much they had helped him along the way. 

Pei was released that same week. There had been many tears when they wished her goodbye, and Louise had another episode that same night. It didn’t look like Louise was following Pei out of there anytime soon, but she had come to terms with that. Without Pei, their lunch table was a little less lively, but nobody could help but be proud of her, and wish her well in her future. Without her, their lives continued, and Waylon still had good days and bad days.

“So,” Doctor Darnielle started their session, “I talked with Lisa the other day.” 

“Oh?” Waylon leaned his elbow on the armrest and let his head rest on his knuckles, “What did she have to say?” 

“We talked a bit about your progress, and how well you were doing, and I think we both agreed that it’s about time for you to go home.” 

Waylon didn’t know if he heard that right. 

“Sorry, what?” 

“You have a place to stay with her if you want it, the house _is_ in both your names, and-“ she pulled out some files from her desk, “I can give you a referral to a psychiatrist around the Leadville area that I would trust with you.” 

“You really… you mean I can go?” 

“If that’s what you’d like.” 

A wide, toothy grin broke out across Waylon’s face. 

“Thanks! Thank you so much, Doctor Darnielle, oh my god-“ he hid his face in his hands to stop from crying out in joy. 

“Please Waylon, call me Paula.” 

“Paula,” she smiled back at him, “Thank you. For everything.” 

“It’s been my pleasure. Let your friends know, you can have tomorrow to visit with them and get your things all packed, then I’ll sign you out on Thursday. Lisa has already arranged a ride for you with your parents.” 

Waylon felt like he should hug her. He knew it was inappropriate, but he was so, so grateful for the woman and all that she had done. If he had never changed therapists in the beginning, where would he be right now? Not gearing up to tell his friends that he would soon be a free man. 

Blake knew right away by the look on his face what he was about to say. He started to cry, and clutch Waylon, and didn’t let Waylon up even when a nurse came to tell them it was dinnertime. 

“Blake,” Waylon shook him, “I swear I’ll come back and visit. Maybe Jaime can room with you-“ 

“I’m not crying because I’m upset that you’re leaving,” he looked up at Waylon, “I’m crying because I’m _happy you're better.”_

The older man was taken aback, and suddenly _he_ was crying, and he felt like it wouldn’t be the last time for a long while. 

Again, a few tears slipped out as he broke the news to the others. He could see Louise grin over her plate, but instinctively her hand gripped at her bandaged wrist, and the smile on her face did not meet her eyes. Waylon made sure to ask Blake and Jaime to keep an eye on her later when she wasn’t within earshot, but he knew that they already would. 

That night as he packed his stuff, he left his books. He found a marker, and on an old piece of scrap paper, he wrote his and Lisa’s address and phone number. 

“Where will you go?” the man asked from his bed as he watched Waylon pack, “After you get out?”

“Lisa and I own a house in Leadville. I think we’ll go back there,” finally he let himself relax onto the bed, “There’s no reason for Murkoff to come after us. Lisa’s been staying at her parents’ house, she’ll be happy to go home.” 

“I’ll miss you,” Blake said through a forced smile, “Don’t have too much fun until I’m out, okay?” 

Waylon chuckled and set the book about Aylwin the dragon tamer down on the bed beside him, with the paper inside. “Here, I want you to have this.” 

Blake inspected it, turning it over and reading the title, before he opened it and saw the paper inside. 

“Keep in touch, please. I’ll visit when I can, but if you need somewhere to stay when you get out of here, you come find me-“ he pointed to the paper, “You can stay as long as you’d like.” 

Blake shot off the bed and wrapped his arms around Waylon’s shoulders, pulling him back down until they were as close as possible. 

“I’m gonna miss you, buddy…” he whispered into his hair, “You be safe out there. Shave for me, please,” Waylon laughed and began struggling to get away, “I’m serious, some people just aren’t meant to have facial hair.” 

“I’m glad I’m leaving,” murmured the older man, “Bully…” his voice got quieter, and he yawned as he relaxed against the man’s chest. Eventually, he drifted to sleep, and in the morning Blake woke him up, but not to make him switch beds. 

He was excitedly getting ready for go, but still he found himself dragging his feet. Explaining the situation had been hard the day before, now saying goodbye would be even harder. 

Even Jaime cried, hugging him tightly like he had never done before. Louise looked like she wanted to cry, but she left him with a light punch on the shoulder, and some words of encouragement. When Jaime finally let him go, he embraced Blake one last time. 

_“Find me,”_ he whispered.

The younger man’s arms tightened around him. _“I promise,”_ he whispered back. 

They separated, somebody handed Waylon his personal belongings that he had come with, but he couldn’t quite remember whom. As he stepped out the doors, his mother stood from a chair, rushing to him and peppering his face in kisses. She had always been a very overbearing woman, but he didn’t really mind right now. He wished he could take back all the times he had pushed away her affections. 

“Oh Waylon, let’s get you home right away,” she linked arms with him, “Your father is working late, but he wishes he could be here.” 

“That’s fine, mom-“ 

“But we’ll be over tonight to help with supper, and-“ 

Like every mom, she went on one of her tirades, mouth never quite closing even as they made it to her little Cadillac and hurried inside and away from the cool air. The drive to Leadville was filled with her voice and small noises of agreement from Waylon, but all he could think about was his own bed as he watched the familiar sights roll by outside his window. 

“What’s on your mind, honey, you don’t seem with me right now?” 

He turned to face her finally, “Can we stop by Grandview Cemetery?” 

Her face fell with worry, “To see your friend?” 

Waylon nodded. 

“Sure dear, if that’s what you’d like.” 

Again, the small white caddy was filled with the sound of her voice. She was in the midst of some story about his grandmother from his dad’s side who had visited for a week from South Korea. Apparently she had given his mother a very hard time, especially since nobody would quite explain where her beloved grandson was. The woman took no breaths, but finally in an opening he turned to look at her again. 

“Miles was my boyfriend.”

She slammed on the breaks, earning them a chorus of honks from others sharing the road. 

_“Excuse_ me, Waylon?” 

“Miles, the one who’s grave we’re going to see,” he rested his head on his elbow again and began watching the annoyed drivers pass them by, “He was my boyfriend.” 

“I know you were great friends, but-“ 

“I’m gay, mom.” 

She was quiet. The car started to roll forward, picking up speed, but still she stayed completely quiet. 

“I don’t think this is very funny, Waylon,” she spat through her teeth.

“I don’t either,” Waylon countered, “I really miss him.” 

“Does Lisa know?” she looked irate, knuckles whitening on the steering wheel. 

“Yeah Mom,” he gave her a soft smile, “She knows.” 

His mother looked completely throttled, on the verge of tears even, but Waylon did not feel like crying. He had prepared himself for this, and he was ready for any reaction. 

As they pulled into the cemetery gates, she finally opened her mouth and faced her son. 

“We’ll talk more about this later.” 

There was something else in her words, but Waylon ignored it. He pulled his toque further down so his ears were covered, obnoxiously thick blond curls reminiscent of his mother’s own peaking out from under the edges. He made his way over to the familiar headstone, still covered in dying flowers, and a few new ones. 

Freshly clipped Irises were rested against the very middle of the stone, surrounding the letter he had left just some time ago. Although it was strange, despite the light snow on the ground and the soft flakes fluttering in the air, the letter did not look damaged, and there was barely any on the petals of the royal blue bouquet. 

He picked it up and turned it over, and on the back, in messy handwriting, it read his name. Despite the chill in the air, he was suddenly overheated. What kind of cruel joke was this? He pulled his toque from his head and ripped the envelope open to reveal a single letter inside. 

_”Dear Waylon,”_ it read. 

_”You absolute dumbass. Of course I fucking forgive you. It’s like you don’t even know me at all sometimes, I swear. You’ve known a guy for almost ten years, and you think he’s gonna throw it all away over one stupid email? Get bent, Waylon, really. I’m upset that you think so low of me.”_

_”Seattle Grace sounds like a hoot, but I’m glad I’m not there with you. If I could, I would, but I’ve got some stuff going on right now and I think it would just be better off if I dealt with that first before I pull a Prince Charming and show up outside your barred windows with a ring pop and a case of beer, don’t you think? I’m glad you met some friends that helped you out when I couldn’t. You don’t have enough, and I was starting to get worried. I think Lisa was too.”_

_”Speaking of Lisa; thank you for telling her. Also, thank **god** I wasn’t there. Lisa loves you, and I told you time and time again that she would take it well. She probably went home, screamed, punched the pillows a bit, but if I was there? She’d have my head. That woman terrifies me. No amount of naked crazy dudes chasing you or cutting your fingers off can prepare you for the beast that is Lisa Park. Don’t tell her I said that by the way, I’d rather stay on her good side.”_

_”As for once you get out of there, I’m thinking tropical. It’s been snowing for four days straight, and I’m done. As soon as I find my goddamn Jeep it’s you and me, miles of white sand beaches, a shitton of margaritas, and a lot of sex. I’m talking **a lot** of sex, Waylon. I haven’t seen you in months, and I’m only twenty-seven you know, a boy has needs. Anyway, Aruba’s a bit far, Mexico is nice this time of year, but maybe California will just have to do. It’s a bit busy, but I’m not a picky guy. As long as you’re there, I’m good.”_

_”Alright, that was sappy. Look, I’m done with the Dear Johns. I miss you. I miss you so much that no matter how much I drink, I still can’t forget you, and I barley even feel the hangover. No matter what I do, all I can think about is you. Touching you, kissing you, just breathing the same air as you. I’m sorry I couldn’t let you know what was up sooner, I really am, but things have been tough. I knew you’d be fine, you’re a fighter, and I knew you’d be out soon. I forgive you for giving up on me, by the way. That was the only way to get through it, and I understand completely. Also, fuck you for giving up on me! I’m hurt, baby, real hurt that you didn’t believe in me or my amazing talents as a reporter and part-time fucking ninja.”_

_”Off the record, I am not as stealthy as I thought. It cost me big time, but we can talk more about that when I see you next. We have a lot to talk about, actually. So get home quick because I waited for you for four years, I don’t think I have it in me to wait any longer.”_

_”Love, Miles Upshur.”_

**Author's Note:**

> I can't believe you just read 30k words of my garbage writing, I hope you feel accomplished. Please give me your critiques and validation in the comments, it would be greatly appreciated! If this gets a good response (or not, I'm in love with these two) I will most likely continue this further. 
> 
> Thanks, kids.


End file.
